


St. Aulë’s Fire

by Angela, Lisafer



Series: '80s Teen Movie Series [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, M/M, Misunderstandings, Modern Middle Earth, Multi, Possibly Unrequited Love, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Second-Breakfast Club, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:11:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 66,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4219530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angela/pseuds/Angela, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisafer/pseuds/Lisafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after their detention fellowship, the Second Breakfast Club is going strong. Legolas and Gimli decide to take their relationship to the next level, moving in to Legolas's posh Minas Ithil apartment. But nothing is as easy as it seems, and leads them to wonder if love is enough to make it all work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the amazing [Gremlinloquacious](http://gremlinloquacious.tumblr.com) for her [marvelous art](http://gremlinloquacious.tumblr.com/post/122711838620/title-st-aules-fire-spring-summer-and.com)! It was an absolute joy working with you!!

SPRING: Late April

The view was sublime. Gimli gazed out across the wide plain of Osgiliath to the jagged peaks of the White Mountains beyond. The sky was clear, a rich azure, and the mountain behind them cast a deep shadow over the field below even as the distant ribbon of the Anduin River glistened in the morning sunlight. He'd never gone in much for outdoorsy stuff like hiking and rock climbing, but faced with such a vista, he completely understood the appeal.

Gimli had been among the last to make it to the top of the mountain, clutching a stitch in his side. Pippin and Faramir still trudged along behind, making it only to the last bend in the steep path as Gimli joined the others on the precipice. Legolas stood with Boromir near the edge, his arm wrapped around the bigger guy's shoulders. He was leaning close, speaking softly. A brisk wind blew, and Legolas's long hair whipped around them both. Gimli idly wondered if he shouldn't have urged him to pull it back before heading out.

It was clear that Gimli wasn't the only one feeling the giddy effects of the view and the hike and the cold spring air. Frodo, Merry, and Sam were looking as elated as Gimli felt, though Frodo at least had the presence of mind to try to conceal it – it wasn't the right occasion for unfettered joy, after all.

Faramir and Pippin finally made it up the last stretch. Pippin looked no worse for the climb, but Faramir was obviously winded. “Sorry,” he began, his voice shallow. “The climb was,” he paused, unconsciously sliding a hand to his temple, his finger rubbing at the scar there as he caught his breath, “harder than I expected.”

Boromir looked pained, and Gimli wondered how much it took for him not to go to his brother's side. He'd given up a lot to take care of Faramir after the accident, giving him every last scrap of his time and attention for the better part of a year, but even he realized that it was time to give the boy some space. Faramir knew he needed to learn to deal with his injuries on his own, and Boromir needed to learn to let him.

“I'm glad you all were able to come,” Boromir said quietly, his glance finally sliding away from his brother.

“You needed us,” Aragorn said, as if it were that simple. And Gimli guessed that it was, when you got down to it. Life had gotten complicated – there was no question about that. They hadn't been all in the same place at the same time since Sam got married the summer before, but when it really mattered, there were ways to make the time.

It had been five years – five years that very month, in fact – since they'd all become unlikely friends in detention at Minas Tirith High School. Legolas had once marveled at the fact that they'd all managed to stay close, but Gimli wasn't surprised. There had been something about those six weeks that had felt destined. A lot had happened since then – graduations, breakups, celebrations, accidents, a wedding, even – but nothing came between the eight of them. Elrond's little power trip had inspired lifelong friendships, it seemed.

“No way we'd let you down,” Gimli chimed in, reaching up to tousle Faramir's hair. He flinched and batted Gimli's hand away, but smiled nonetheless. By now he was used to it, and having eight older brothers had come in handy over the years, after all.

“Let's get on with it,” Boromir said. His voice was hard, but Gimli understood that it was only because he was trying to contain his feelings.

The past year had been especially hard for him. After the accident that had killed his father and left his brother in a coma, Boromir had been the only one left to hold the world together for his little family. He'd taken a leave of absence from his budding career as a pitcher for a major-league farm team to take care of things. From arranging his father's cremation to selling their childhood home to pay for Faramir's medical bills, Boromir had managed everything, stubbornly accepting only the barest help from friends and extended family.

A year later, things were finally looking up for him again. Faramir was back on his feet and determined to go to college – a local school with a work study program, due to their reduced circumstances – and Boromir himself had just finished spring training after an invitation to try out for the Pelargir Pirates. That day marked the one-year anniversary of Denethor O'Gondor's death, and Gimli hoped that scattering their father's ashes would bring both brothers the closure they sorely needed.

Boromir pulled the urn out of his bag. “How should we do this?” he asked his brother.

Faramir shrugged. “Just dump it,” he suggested. “Let the bastard blow away.” His harsh words were belied by the choke in his voice and his teary half-smile.

Boromir grinned in spite of himself. It might've been the first genuine emotion that Gimli had seen from him all day. “Okay, then,” he said. He lifted the little lid off the urn and peered inside for a moment. He looked around at everyone. “Anyone want to say anything?”

Feet were shuffled. Excuses murmured. Gimli looked away. He hadn't known Mr. O'Gondor very well. None of them had, and Boromir hadn't really talked about him much.

“There once lived a man called O'Gondor!”

Every eye turned incredulously toward Pippin. He had clambered onto a fallen tree trunk and stood as tall and proud as if he were giving an inaugural address. “Pip,” Merry hissed up at him, tugging at his pant leg. “Pip, this is not the time.”

But Pippin would not be deterred. “He liked most to read and to ponder,” he continued, feigning obliviousness. “But he proved in the end, with his one life to spend –”

Merry succeeded in knocking him from his perch and they both went tumbling to the ground, stopping only inches from Boromir's feet. Inches from the edge of the cliff as well, Gimli noted with alarm.

But Pippin only grinned up at Boromir, then at Faramir. “Of his two boys, he couldn't be fonder!” he finished, beaming.

For a long moment, no one moved. It seemed as though they barely dared to breathe. Legolas's wide-eyed gaze met Gimli's, and all Gimli could do was shrug. Pippin's lack of tact was a well-documented phenomenon, after all, though he would have put his money on Merry putting his foot in it first. Frodo was signaling to Aragorn that he should break the silence when suddenly Faramir laughed.

He took two steps forward and reached down to pull Pippin up. Pip had barely regained his footing before Faramir yanked him into a hug. “You always know just what to say!” And suddenly Boromir was smiling and Aragorn allowed himself a nervous laugh. Everyone visibly relaxed, though Sam still had a pinch of uncertainty between his brows.

“So let's scatter those ashes,” Faramir told his brother, keeping one arm around Pippin's shoulders.

Boromir tipped the urn. A wisp of grey cloud puffed out and was gone an instant later. Gimli was surprised there was so little. It was humbling.

“Bye, Dad,” Boromir murmured. He closed his eyes for a moment and heaved a shuddering sigh. Faramir smiled sadly and reached out to grasp his brother's hand. Boromir started, then relaxed into it, twining their fingers.

Legolas slipped behind Gimli and put his hands on his shoulders. Gimli leaned back, enjoying the strength and warmth of Legolas's chest behind him. It was good to have someone to count on, he realized. No one knew when, like Boromir and Faramir, they might find themselves on their own. But Gimli knew that as long as Legolas was in his life, he could handle anything.

“Okay, orphans,” Pippin burst out suddenly, jarring every last one of them. “The rest of you, too. Diamond and Rosie have beer and pizza waiting at my place. Let's go!”

^^

Legolas wished that Pippin would learn to wash dishes. The kitchen was full of dishes for entertaining: enough plates, silverware, and glasses to start his own catering business, if he wanted. His mother had been famous for her dinner parties and had managed to entertain over two hundred people at Pippin's graduation party without resorting even to paper napkins. Now that Pip had the house to himself and all that stuff at his disposal while his parents traveled the world, it seemed to Legolas that a reluctance to wash dishes – even in the dishwasher! – could be the only reason Pippin would insist on using paper plates and plastic forks every time he had anyone over.

Gimli came back from the bar with refills of the wine – in red Solo cups, of course – and leaned against the kitchen counter next to Legolas. “Remind me again why we don't spend every weekend here?” he asked, taking a deep drink.

“Because we both live in Minas Ithil,” Legolas said. He sipped his own wine. It was incredible; he took another deep drink. “Also, we would be alcoholics.” No one stocked a bar like Pippin Took, though how he managed, being barely twenty years old, was beyond them both.

The somber funeral atmosphere had lasted only a short while, and now the party was in full-swing. Although they were at Pippin's house, Rose Cotton – now Rose Gamgee, Legolas reminded himself – had taken on all the hostess duties. She bustled around, ensuring that everyone had enough to eat and drink, stopping now and again for a particularly good conversation or to comb her fingers through her husband's hair. Legolas could see Sam in the den, playing a video game with Merry. Pippin was behind them, perched on the back of the couch and alternating between tossing out critical comments about their playing skills and talking with Faramir about whatever it was that he and Faramir talked about. They hung out almost every day, Pippin having firmly established himself as an honorary member of the O'Gondor family years ago.

Diamond Long-Cleeve was apparently in charge of the music. She had a portable turntable and stacks of records and she'd somehow coaxed Frodo into dancing with her. Legolas was glad to see his friend laughing at something she was saying to him. Frodo had always been fairly serious, but lately he'd been so busy with his honors thesis that he barely seemed to think of anything else.

“Looks like Diamond's messing with Frodo. You don't suppose he'll take the bait, do you?” Gimli asked. Diamond's dancing didn't seem terribly platonic, and there was no way even Frodo could miss it.

“I hope not,” Legolas said. No one was quite sure what exactly – if anything – was going on between Diamond and Pippin, but everyone had been operating under the assumption that she was off-limits. When asked, Pippin insisted that they weren't dating, but Merry was telling a different story entirely, claiming that the two were together all the time. “Merry said she and Pippin spent the last two weekends here together, not answering the phone or the door, except for pizza delivery. He implied that there wasn't a lot of clothing involved, but I don't see how he'd know.”

Gimli snorted. “He fills in the gaps,” he said. “Just imagine what he thinks we're up to in Minas Ithil.”

Legolas sidled closer. “I suspect the truth would shock him,” he whispered, near enough to Gimli's ear that his lips brushed against skin. Gimli's whole body shuddered – exactly the response Legolas wanted. He nipped at the gauged earlobe, not caring if anyone was watching.

Gimli swatted at him, but then leaned up to catch his lips in a kiss that was also a promise for later. “That we live across town from each other and spend only a couple nights a week together?” he asked dryly. “It shocks even me, sometimes.”

It was a perfect segue, and Legolas wasn't going to waste it. “About that,” he began. It had been on his mind for ages now – since even before Tauriel moved out. “What do you think about –”

“Glóinsson!” 

Gimli pulled away in an instant, a huge grin on his face. “Éomer!”

Legolas’s head snapped toward the foyer, where Éomer and Éowyn suddenly filled the space, handing Pippin a bag filled with clinking bottles. Apparently it was well known what was required of a Took gathering. Gimli crossed the room to perform one of those hyper-masculine handclasp-while-half-hugging-with-the-free-arm maneuvers that Legolas could never master. Gimli and Éomer had it down to a science. Legolas idly wondered if they'd practiced.

“Didn’t realize you’d be here!” Gimli greeted cheerfully.

“Yeah, Éowyn needed a lift,” Éomer replied with a glower at his twin. “She still doesn’t have her license after the whole street racing incident.”

On the other side of the kitchen, Boromir bristled. Legolas didn't even have to look at him to know – it was obvious in his sudden silence and the cold feeling of doom that seemed to emanate from his corner. It wasn’t only that Éowyn was Faramir’s ex-girlfriend – over the years, she'd been his ex for almost as much time as she'd been his girlfriend. But this time was different; everyone knew that she’d ended things after the crash, compounding Faramir's broken body with a broken heart. And then to hear that she was driving recklessly for sport was enough to make Boromir despise her.

Gimli snorted, grinning like a fool. He wasn't the type to despise anyone, Legolas had realized long ago. “You say it like it’s some burden, but you know you wanted to see us.” He included Éowyn in his greeting, and she smiled back nervously - at least she had the sense to doubt her reception. Éomer grinned in response and punched Gimli’s shoulder.

“Faramir and Merry are in the den,” Pippin said to Éowyn, gesturing with a nod of his head.

“Thanks.” She was out of there faster than a Bugatti when the light turned green. 

“What’s _she_ doing here?” Boromir growled to no one in particular, watching her disappear into the den. 

“She was invited,” Rose replied pertly. “And don't you even think of starting any trouble for your brother,” she continued. “He's an adult now, and free to see whomever he likes.”

Boromir swore and took a deep swig of whatever he was drinking. “And I'm free to want to see her tossed out on her ass,” he muttered. Legolas glanced hurriedly toward Éomer, but he and Gimli were gone. Outside smoking, no doubt.

Lucky. The last thing they needed was an exhibition of Éomer Eadig's infamous short temper. But even if Boromir had been rude about his sister, it wasn't like it wasn't justified. She'd dumped Faramir while he was still in the hospital, not long after he'd come out of the coma. Just thinking about it was starting to make Legolas feel cranky, until Gimli found his way back to his side, grabbing crackers from Rose on the way. “Garlic and asiago,” he explained happily. “Want one?”

“Sure,” Legolas replied. He opened his mouth and Gimli tossed one neatly into it. They were pretty good. “Are you guys playing Halo now, or will you stay with me?” he asked as soon as he was done chewing.

During Gimli’s senior year of high school, weekends had been filled with trips between Minas Tirith and Minas Ithil so they could spend as much time as possible together. But during the week, Gimli had spent more time playing Halo with Éomer than much of anything else, including homework. Sometimes Merry and Pippin joined them, but usually it was just the two of them. Lately Gimli had been talking about starting that again, though Legolas didn't really see the appeal.

“’M with you,” Gimli replied, shoving the other two crackers into his mouth. He smiled through the crunching. “You smell nice.” 

Legolas's heart flip-flopped at the affectionate twinkle in Gimli's eyes. He marveled at how easily Gimli could do that, even after so much time.

“So what were you saying, before those two showed up?” he asked, putting his arm around Legolas's waist.

“It can wait,” Legolas replied. And it wasn't just that Éomer had soured his mood. He was looking into the TV room where Éowyn was leaning over the back of the couch, whispering something to Faramir. And when he looked up at her, answering, his face shined with happiness. Definitely not exes, then. Not for long, at least. Faramir put down his game controller and made some excuse to Sam. In a moment, he and Éowyn were slipping through the doors to the back garden. Boromir had noticed too, judging by the cracked plastic noises the cup in his hand was making. “Events are unfolding,” Legolas told Gimli conspiratorially, “and I don’t think we want to miss them.”

There was another knock at the front door but before anyone could answer, Fredegar Bolger popped his shaggy head inside. “I'm here to pay my respects to the O'Gondors,” he called out, but Legolas noticed that he had a couple of board games tucked beneath his arm. Pippin's parties were like that, though – birthdays or graduations or funerals, they all ended up the same way: drinking and games in the basement. That scheme had netted him a couple of infamous make-out parties when he was in high school. Legolas remembered being glad he was too old for that stuff then.

“Legolas Thranduilion!” Fredegar called as he came into the kitchen. “I haven't seen you since graduation, man!” 

“It's good to see you,” he agreed, offering his hand. He wasn't sure whether or not they'd spoken more than three times in their lives, but there was something about being in the same class that actually seemed to matter after graduation. “You know Gimli?” he asked.

Fredegar's eyes widened. “You two are still together?” he said, surprised. “Everyone wondered what the hell Glóinsson was up to with you, but no one expected you guys to last!”

Gimli caught Legolas's eye and raised an eyebrow. Legolas smiled stiffly. There was one at every party. But he forgot Fredegar's lack of tact when a shy, slender girl stepped through the doorway behind him. She was big-eyed and lovely, standing on tiptoe to look for someone, even while looking like a loud noise would make her bolt. Legolas hoped she wasn't his girlfriend. If she was Fredegar Bolger's girlfriend, the world had gone seriously wrong.

“This is my sister, Stella,” Bolger said. That made a lot more sense. Not perfect sense, though. It was hard to imagine them as products of the same gene pool.

“Is Merry here?” she asked in a low voice. Long lashes brushed against flushing cheeks as she glanced at the floor.

Legolas pointed her toward the den and Fredegar wandered off in search of beer. Gimli tugged Legolas back into his arms, whistling low under his breath as he watched Stella Bolger step through the kitchen. “That girl is gorgeous,” he breathed.

Gimli was right – her looks were different, kind of leggy and fawn-like, but she could give even Arwen Undómiel a run for her money. “And she's looking for Merry.” Legolas couldn't keep the absurd glee out of his voice.

A laugh bubbled out of Gimli, and suddenly Legolas was laughing, too. He didn't have to ask what Gimli was thinking – it was obvious. Of all the guys at that party, Merry Brandybuck would probably be the last to notice her – and that was including the very gay and the happily-married and even the yet-to-be-determined.

“I hope she's not expecting much out of him,” Aragorn's amused voice chimed in from behind them. He leaned on the other side of the island, smirking.

“Merry is a new kind of oblivious,” said Gimli. It wasn't that Merry didn't like girls; he just never seemed to notice that they weren't boys. Or that they might have any interest at all in him.

“He'd have to be,” Aragorn agreed. He shook his head and winked at Gimli. “It seems Legolas is no longer the pretty one at this party.”

“You're just jealous because yours isn't here,” Gimli teased. “Don't let the bad man scare you, love,” he crooned at Legolas, getting laughs from all of them.

“Speaking of pretty girls, where's Tauriel?” Aragorn asked.

“On tour!” Gimli said, beaming like a proud papa.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “A major part?”

“It's a national tour,” Legolas explained. “ _The Lay of Leithian_. She's playing Lúthien Tinúviel.” It was her first lead role and her first tour. Breaking into the business had been harder than either of them had expected, but it looked like she'd finally made it. He would definitely miss her, but it was worth it.

Shaking his head, Aragorn grinned ruefully. “Arwen's gonna be so jealous,” he said. “Tinúviel is her favorite fairy tale heroine.”

He headed back to Boromir, who was definitely still agitated about his brother and Éowyn. Legolas considered talking to him, but what could he say? Besides, he had to come up with another way to broach the subject of cohabitation with Gimli.

He'd asked before, just after Gimli graduated from high school. He was moving to Minas Ithil anyway, and after a year apart, Legolas was eager to have him close every day. But Gimli turned him down. “It would make things uncomfortable for Tauriel,” he'd explained. “No one wants to live with a soppy couple.”

And so he got his own place – a tiny efficiency apartment in a sketchy neighborhood, so small that he had to install a Murphy bed and use the kitchen counters for a dining room. “I'm never there, anyway,” he'd reasoned. He'd used the Celebrimbor-Narvi grant money toward an art studio in a slightly better area, and that's where he spent most of his daylight hours, up to his elbows in paint or metal or whatever else struck his fancy that week. He worked evenings at a tattoo shop, working his way up from cashier/janitor to featured artist in just a few years.

Legolas was proud of him. He was doing it his own way, without any money from his parents. And it wasn't like they never saw each other. Legolas stopped in at the studio to take him to dinner almost every evening before heading out to his own job, and on nights when they were both free, dinner almost always led to both of them staying in Legolas's bed until work demanded their time once more.

It was sleeping alone for the other five nights a week that was starting to get old.

And now Tauriel was gone. She'd been gone a whole month, but Legolas hadn't gotten up the nerve to ask. What if he came up with some other reason to say no? Just the thought of it made him content to wait a bit longer. He'd hoped that Gimli would suggest it himself, but the closest he'd come was to initiate sex on the couch, now that Tauriel wasn't there to walk in on them.

“Is that the 'events unfolding' that you were talking about?” Gimli asked suddenly, his eyes going wide as he nodded toward the back door. Faramir and Éowyn had just slipped back inside, their fingers entwined. The party went on, seeming not to notice, but Legolas caught more than one curious glance tossed that way. Boromir had his back to the door, talking with Aragorn and Éomer about baseball, it seemed, by the way he pantomimed swinging a bat.

“Um, everyone?” Faramir's voice was hesitant and got only limited attention. Éowyn visibly squeezed his hand and he tried again. “You guys, I have an announcement!” Most eyes turned in their direction, and Legolas noted that though Boromir stopped talking, he didn't turn around. “Hey,” Faramir barked at his brother. “This is important!”

Boromir crossed his arms and turned slowly to face Faramir and Éowyn. “All right,” he said slowly. “Let's hear it.”

“We're getting married,” Éowyn blurted, her cheeks suddenly blazing. She leveled her gaze at Boromir – or at her brother, standing just behind – and tilted her chin up, obviously expecting a challenge.

“Oh, hell no!” Boromir growled before anyone dared offer their congratulations. He shook his head, his eyes locked on his little brother. “Not that one,” he insisted. “Not her.”

Faramir squared his shoulders and glared back at Boromir. “You can't stop us.”

At the same time, Éomer grabbed Boromir's shoulders, forcing him around to face him. “What the fuck do you mean, 'not that one'?” he demanded.

“Don't tell me you support this?” Boromir's tone was incredulous.

Éomer grimaced. “He broke her heart pretty bad last summer,” he conceded, “but he'd been through some serious shit. I'm willing to forgive if she is.”

For a second, Legolas thought that Boromir might actually throw a punch. And he wasn't the only one who thought so; Frodo was already halfway across the room, though what he thought he could do about it was beyond Legolas's imagination. It didn't matter though, because Aragorn put a hand on Boromir's arm, murmuring to him as though he were a horse.

Meanwhile, the girls had swooped down on the couple. “Congratulations!” Rose was squealing, reaching to squeeze Faramir into a hug.

Faramir glanced at his brother over her shoulder and shook his head. By the time she'd pulled way, he had a genuine smile on his face. “Thanks. I'm gonna finish school first, but that'll take only a few years.”

Diamond had plucked up Éowyn's left hand and was making cooing noises at the tiny ring on her fourth finger. “It's so pretty!” she cried.

Even Stella seemed to shake off her shyness long enough to congratulate them. Legolas wondered if they'd forgotten how miserably Éowyn had screwed him over last year, or if it was just a girl thing, and they were unable to be anything but excited about an engagement. But then Sam was there too, shaking Faramir's hand and grinning.

Merry and Pippin – neither of them looking even mildly surprised by the news – exchanged an eye roll at Sam's expense. “Welcoming him into the club, are you?” Merry asked, teasingly.

“I guess it was kind of inevitable,” Gimli said, a smile in his voice. “Those two never could stay away from each other for long.”

His eyes were shining with love for his friends, for the whole world it seemed. Gimli was really a sentimental idiot, after all, and it reminded Legolas of all the reasons he loved this particular idiot. He pulled Gimli in front of him and slid his arms around him from behind. Gimli leaned back, nuzzling Legolas's cheek with the top of his head. “Move in with me,” he whispered against Gimli's soft hair. “Please.”

He thought he'd been prepared for any answer, and he steeled himself for the rejection he feared. But Gimli only tilted his head up, twisting just enough in Legolas's arms that their lips brushed together. His eyes darkened with emotion and Legolas fiercely wished they were alone. “Okay,” Gimli said softly. Legolas kissed him deeply, not caring that they had a dozen witnesses. When they finally pulled apart, both were weak-kneed and dizzy. “Okay,” Gimli said again, his voice shaking. “I will.”

^^

It was late when they finally said their goodbyes. Gimli slid into the passenger seat of Legolas's BMW and fastened his seat belt. He was a bit buzzed with alcohol and happiness, but Legs had stopped drinking hours before. He clasped Aragorn and Boromir on the back and hopped in next to Gimli. “My place?” he asked softly, starting the engine and flicking on the lights.

Gimli nodded. Maybe this would be the last time Legolas ever had to ask. A giddy rush of love and worry washed over him as Legolas turned the car onto the freeway. “Just to be clear,” he started, feeling foolish and yet unable to help himself. “You want me to move in with you as lovers, right? Not just roommates?”

Legolas shook his head. The lights of oncoming traffic illuminated the amazement on his face. “Seriously?” he asked. “You think you need to ask that?”

Gimli swallowed, feeling absurd and vulnerable and so incredibly happy. “Just don't want to start with any misunderstandings,” he said, his voice feeling gruff. “Like who sleeps where and who's gonna pay for what. It's kind of a big deal.”

Legolas reached over, curling his fingers around Gimli's knee and squeezing gently. “You're sleeping in my bed,” he said lightly, though a strain in his voice betrayed deeper emotion. “And we don't have to pay for much – just food and stuff. Dad takes care all the building fees and utilities. He even pays the cleaning service.”

Cleaning service? Gimli raised his eyebrows. He hated when people rooted through his stuff. But he looked at Legolas in the glow of the dashboard, the small smile that curved his lips, the way he kept his eyes glued to the road ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on Gimli's knee. He loved this guy. For him, Gimli could deal with a maid, a maid and so much more.

“I pay for the car myself,” Legolas was saying. “And I like to eat out, but if you can't swing that so much, I could cut back. Maybe learn to cook some stuff.”

“So we're each buying our own food?” Gimli asked, needing as much clarification as Legolas would give him.

Another knee squeeze. “I want us all in,” Legolas said softly. “I don't want it to be a big deal if I pay for a few more meals or you end up buying more laundry detergent. As long as you're sleeping on the pillow next to mine, those things don't matter.”

Laundry. Gimli pictured their clothes tumbling together in a glass-fronted dryer. It was intimate, imagining their socks and underwear mingling like that, coming out warm and smelling of the same fabric softener. He wanted that intimacy. He'd wanted it for years, maybe since that first intoxicating kiss in their high school library. He hoped the maid didn't do the laundry.

“Okay,” Gimli said after a long moment. He could do that. He wanted to do that, to share everything from orange juice to body wash with Legolas. He wanted to wake up next to him every day for the rest of his life. “I'm all in.”


	2. Chapter 2

SPRING: May

“Why are we here again?” Boromir asked. He put down Gimli's childhood chest-of-drawers like it weighed barely more than a bag of dog food and surveyed the rather meager assortment of boxes and bags that made up the bulk of Gimli's possessions.

“Free beer.” Aragorn came from the kitchen and tossed a cold can to Boromir, who caught it casually. “But it's not like they needed our help,” he said.

Legolas didn't disagree. Gimli didn't have a lot of things – a dresser, some lamps, a surprising amount of clothes, since he always seemed to wear the same ratty jeans and hoodies – but it was nice to have company, just the same.

“You sure you should be drinking that?” Gimli asked, looking meaningfully at Boromir's beer.

Aragorn snorted. “Since when does Gimli Glóinsson judge other people's bad habits?”

Legolas and Boromir laughed, but Gimli shook his head. “I thought ball players had curfews and rules about smoking and drinking.”

“Not signed yet,” Boromir said. “Once my agent hands me papers, I'll start following their rules.” As if to make a point, he chugged the rest of the can like a frat boy. Not that they knew too many of those; Merry was the only one among their group who'd ever pledged, and he didn't like the taste of beer.

“Have you and Faramir talked yet?” Aragorn asked. Legolas shared a look with Gimli. It had been on everyone's mind, but apparently Aragorn was the only one with the balls to broach the subject.

Boromir's face darkened. “Not about Éowyn, if that's what you're trying to ask.”

Legolas knew that Boromir hadn't spoken to his dad for at least two years before the accident; everyone was worried that he might shut Faramir out the same way. Boromir might think he could live like that, but they all knew better. Faramir had been his reason for everything for a long, long time now.

“It's not about you, you know,” Gimli said quietly. In his serious voice, Legolas recognized. “He deserves to be happy, whether you like her or not.”

“That's not the point!” Boromir snapped. “It doesn't even matter that I don't like her – I'm against it because she treated him like shit when he needed her the most!”

There was a long moment of silence, and Legolas couldn't help but wonder – not for the first time – what had changed to make Faramir take Éowyn back. After she'd walked away that night in the ICU, he'd insisted he was done with her – really and truly this time – and given the circumstances, no one had doubted it.

Legolas had no sympathy for Éowyn. He had no sympathy for anyone who would just up and dump the one they claimed to love the most. To be able to do that – to walk away without caring about the damage just inflicted – would require a level of callousness that Legolas just couldn't tolerate. His own history had been enough for him to make up his mind about it. What would he have felt if it'd been compounded with a life-changing injury and someone else's death? No, he couldn't understand why Faramir would even consider it.

“Well, it's happening whether we agree or not, so we may as well try to at least understand,” Aragorn said, breaking the silence. “In our own time,” he added, glancing at Boromir.

“It's not like she's the only girl in the whole damn world,” Boromir grumbled. “Faramir has no idea! He'll meet a hundred girls in college, probably any one of them better for him than that bitch.”

Gimli shifted uncomfortably. He was friends with Éowyn, so much so that Legolas had chosen to avoid this very conversation with him. “I think that Faramir and Éowyn are the only ones who can decide what's best for them,” Gimli said carefully. Legolas heard the hint of a growl beneath his words, noted the pinch of irritation between his brows. “No one knows the whole story of their relationship but them.”

For a long moment, it was silent. Legolas stood and started collecting empty cans and pizza boxes. Gimli peeled the cellophane off of a new pack of cigarettes, tapping it against his palm as he moved toward the terrace. Legolas wondered if he should lift the ban on smoking in the apartment; it was one thing when it was just his space, but it seemed wrong that Gimli had to leave his own home for a cigarette. 

"Has anyone talked to Frodo lately?" Aragorn asked, moving toward the terrace doors, so he could keep Gimli in the conversation without moving everyone outside.

"Is something wrong?" Legolas asked. Frodo was killing himself in a program that let him earn both his bachelor's and master's degrees within five years. He was already stressing over getting into the right PhD program, even though he still had two years left before it mattered.

Boromir snorted. "Last I saw him was at the party, with Diamond hanging all over him." He sprawled back across the couch and kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, completely ignoring Legolas's indignant sputter.

"Exactly," Aragorn replied, his expression intense. "Diamond. Who's with Pippin."

"Ish," Gimli chimed in from outside. 

Legolas grinned. "No one really knows what Pippin's up to,” he reasoned. “Maybe he and Diamond are just friends. Or maybe she and Frodo were just dancing."

"That's the thing," Aragorn began slowly. "They weren't just dancing."

Gimli glanced at Legolas, eyebrows raised, and let out a low whistle. "It's got to be a misunderstanding. Frodo stealing Pippin's girl is absurd. Those four are best friends – they wouldn't do that to one another, even if Pippin's never really said what she is to him."

And Pippin definitely hadn't. Diamond had been friends with Pippin almost as long as he had, and in all that time, Pippin never called her his girlfriend. When asked outright, he'd shrugged and said "we don't like labels."

"You sound like a bunch of gossiping old biddies," Boromir said with a snort. He had a very low tolerance for discussions about other people's love lives – but at least Aragorn had successfully removed the issue of Éowyn and Faramir from the room. "What is there to do in Minas Ithil on a Friday night? I think we got everything from that hell hole Gimli called an apartment."

"Hey, I liked that place," Gimli protested, interrupting his chain of smoke rings.

"It wasn't nice," Aragorn said firmly. "All it was good for was promoting the idea of the starving artist living in squalor. Isn't your dad rich?"

Gimli shrugged. It was his tendency to play down his family's wealth, Legolas knew. The Glóinssons were well off, but Gimli was the first to point out that it was his dad's money, not his. And he refused any help offered over the last four years. Legolas was pretty sure that Gimli didn't have a trust fund waiting until he was twenty-five, like he did. And if his parents had set some aside for him, he would most likely drop it in a bank account and track it carefully, like he did with the grant money.

"I liked it," Gimli said again. He stubbed out his cigarette in an ash tray and sauntered back into the living room. "We can head over to St. Aulë's Bar if you want."

It wasn't the best bar in town – it wasn't swanky, or even particularly unique. But Legolas had been working as a bartender there for several years and actually enjoyed the atmosphere. It was the kind of place he could go when he was off the clock and not feel like he was stuck at work. And it had become iconic - when the guys visited from Minas Tirith, they spent at least one evening at St. Aulë's, catching up on life while drinking import beers.

“You don't think they'd mind that I asked for the night off?” Aragorn said. Thanks in part to a good word from Legolas, he'd been picking up hours bar-backing for the past six months. His real-life job was an unpaid internship with the governor's re-election campaign, and even the most humble existence cost a lot in the city.

“Nah.” Legolas waved away his friend's hesitation. “Bergil took the shift. As long as they're covered, no one cares.”

“Besides, this is a celebration,” Boromir said, standing suddenly. The fierce expression he'd been wearing more often than not melted into a smile as he yanked Legolas to his feet. “Congratulations on finally taking the next step, you guys. Let's get shit-faced!”

Beside Gimli, Aragorn grinned. “But not so much that they can't....” He trailed off, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

Gimli snorted. “Like that's ever a problem.” He looked up at Legolas, cocked one eyebrow, and Legolas felt heat rush across his whole body. It had always been that easy between them. He was pretty sure it always would.

^^

The bed was soft and his pillow still held the barest scent of laundry detergent. He was at Legolas's place, then. No. Not anymore. This was his place, too. Gimli cracked open one eye – the room was dark and still, though the promising glow of sunlight peeked from behind the black-out curtains. The clock on the dresser was too far away from him to read without his glasses, and he wasn't that curious.

Legolas was asleep close beside him, the sheets pushed down to his navel. His hair was a tangled halo around his head and his one and only tattoo, an ornate leaf, was black and stark against the pale skin of his bare chest.

Gimli was just trying to decide on the best way to wake him – the frontrunner involved tracing his tongue from tattoo to navel and then beyond – when Legolas stirred on his own. He opened his eyes and blinked. “Morning, roomie,” he said, his voice thick with sleep. He stretched, revealing a dusky love bite below one ear.

Gimli remembered giving it to him – they hadn't even gotten past the tiled entryway. The memory – and those that came after – shortened his breath and made his hands itch to touch Legolas again. He leaned close, brushing his mouth across Legolas's lips. “Mmm. You taste like whiskey,” he murmured, nipping gently. His thoughts were viscous with the memory of intoxication, but his body responded just like it was conditioned to. Gimli twined his leg around Legolas's and was delighted to discover that they were both still completely naked beneath the sheets.

For a time they kissed, pressing close together and running languid hands over skin. The urgency of the night before had waned, so although Gimli was hard against Legolas's thigh, he didn't mind when Legolas laughed softly and pulled back. “I got stuff to make breakfast,” he said in a low voice. “Bacon. Eggs.” He brushed his lips against Gimli's ear. “Toast.”

"Or you could stay here," Gimli said, his hand firmly placed on Legolas's hip. 

"Not as nutritious," Legolas said, climbing out of their bed. He pulled pajama bottoms up and pressed the button that opened the curtains. As light flooded the room, he continued his path to the en suite bathroom. Gimli lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes against the onslaught of daylight. He'd had good dreams – he'd been attending his first gallery opening, rather than the usual back-in-high-school kind of dreams he was used to. And he'd been working with glass that was as thin as flakes of mica.

"Do you like jam on your toast, or butter?" Legolas asked, popping his head out of the bathroom, his toothbrush in his mouth. 

"Butter."

"Good. I don't think I have jam." He disappeared for another moment and then started singing – probably the moment he put down the toothbrush. It was one of his more endearing habits, to sing through his entire morning routine. Gimli smiled to himself. Now he'd get to enjoy the concert every day.

"Do you want help?" Gimli called over the sound of running water. He was nearly worthless in the kitchen, unless he was making macaroni and cheese, but it didn't seem right to lie about while Legolas prepared a meal.

"Nope. You can do it tomorrow," he called out. 

"Tomorrow we have cereal," they announced in unison, and laughed. 

Gimli rolled out of bed, stretching luxuriously before he glanced over his shoulder at the doors to the terrace. The downside of having a swanky apartment was all the glass – floor to ceiling windows in every room, doors to three different terraces. All it took was a pair of binoculars for some pervert to get an eyeful. He pulled on his boxers, ending the peep show for the imaginary old letch. 

"And after breakfast?" Gimli asked, catching Legolas's hand before he could disappear down the hallway.

"We come back to bed."

He had a feeling he was going to like living with Legolas very much.

^^

Gimli apparently didn't like his new clothes. He tugged at the shirt collar, fidgeted with his cuffs. He didn't seem to know how to ignore his tie. Legolas smiled to himself. Let him wiggle and fuss – he looked fantastic. They'd purchased it all the day before; rather, Legolas purchased it while Gimli made halfhearted noises of protest. But they had a dinner date with Legolas's father and Gimli didn't have anything in his wardrobe appropriate for the kinds of places his father liked to eat.

“You can wear it for gallery shows,” he reminded him gently in the car. “Besides, you look hot.”

“Probably because this jacket is made with wool,” Gimli grumbled. “I feel like an idiot.”

Legolas picked up his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you,” he murmured. Gimli hadn't said that he didn't want to come along that night, but Legolas knew how uncomfortable he was when his father was nearby.

They'd been living together for weeks now, and Legolas still hadn't mentioned the fact to his father. It wasn't because he thought he'd disapprove – he'd been nothing but supportive of Legolas's sexuality in general and of Gimli in particular – but it felt weirdly personal, telling him something like that, as though he were telling him outright that he wanted to have sex with Gimli every single night.

“What time are we supposed to meet him?” Gimli asked as the car came to a stop in front of Gil-Galad's. The restaurant was in an old brownstone, a striped awning with the street address more prominent than the name in gold lettering on the glass door.

Legolas checked his cell. “We have five minutes,” he said, stepping out and handing his keys to the valet. Not that his father wasn't already there. He never liked the idea of being “fashionably” late, eschewing even punctuality in favor of being the first person to arrive at any meeting. He claimed that this was in deference to his guests, so that no one ever had to wait for him. Legolas had no doubt that was true, but he also knew that his father loved having time to review the wine lists, so that he could have a bottle or two of his own selections at the table before anyone could suggest a different vintage.

“Don't let him manipulate you into talking about investing the rest of your grant money,” Legolas warned in a low voice as the maître d led them to his father's table. “I told him that you were being careful with it, but he thinks that if money isn't making money, it's being wasted.”

“No worries,” Gimli said easily. “Already had that discussion with my father and Bilbo Baggins and I'm not eager to repeat it. I don't think there's enough left to make any profit on it, anyway. I think I have a year left, tops.” He reached out and caught Legolas's hand. “Relax,” he said softly.

But there was no time for that. His father had caught sight of them and he stood to welcome them. As usual, he'd gotten a fantastic table that was both in the back and near a window. He shook both of their hands, clapping Gimli on the shoulder before they all sat down. “I took the liberty of ordering for the whole table,” he began, his voice just sheepish enough. “They have the most amazing Merlot, and everyone knows that a great Merlot demands salmon.”

Legolas caught Gimli's eye. He only shrugged, a tiny what-can-you-do? smile on his face. He wasn't a fussy eater, thank goodness, or else he'd never come along when Legolas went out with his father.

“So Gimli,” Mr. Thranduilion began as soon as they were all seated and comfortable. “What have you been working on this spring? Any significant projects? Commissions?” He loved Gimli's art. Well, not exactly – he wasn't much of an art-lover personally, but he loved to support artists. More than once he'd held up Gimli's passion and creativity in contrast to what he saw as Legolas's own lack of drive.

“Nothing special,” Gimli said, sitting up straighter. “But I'll have a few pieces in a show downtown at the Glamdring. It opens in two weeks.”

Legolas watched his father's eyebrows raise. “Your own show?” he asked, pride in his voice.

“Nothing like that.” Gimli twirled a bread stick between his fingers – fidgeting like that usually meant he was craving a cigarette. “I'm one of six artists showcased.” He continued with vigor, describing the show's theme and telling them about the other artists participating. Legolas sipped his water and half-listened, wavering between being terribly pleased with Gimli's success and being bored with the conversation.

“And you're still working nights?” Legolas's father asked. “When on earth do you find time to work on your sculptures?”

Legolas narrowed his eyes. It was interesting, the way his father thought Gimli's job was obviously too much of a burden while his own job – harder work and more hours, if anyone cared to note – was apparently nothing more than a way to waste time while waiting for his trust fund to kick in.

“He lives a lot closer to his studio now,” Legolas explained, and no one would ever know how frustrated he was with the older man. He'd spent his whole life working the perfect-son routine; he didn't even have to try anymore. “So he's not wasting that hour or more on the bus.”

Mr. Thranduilion looked interested. “Closer?” he asked. Like Legolas, he'd never been thrilled with the location of Gimli's apartment. And if he'd ever been inside – which he hadn't, thank the gods – he probably would have tried to front him the money to move out years ago.

Gimli looked over at Legolas encouragingly. It seemed the time had come, though Legolas had half-hoped that his father would ignore the bait. He took a deep breath. “He moved in with me.”

His father’s eyebrows shot up; the pleasant smile on his face remained, unchanged. “Really?” he asked, his voice casual-but-not. Legolas recognized it as a sure sign that his father was upset. “When did this happen?”

“Almost a month ago,” Legolas told him, sipping his wine carelessly. His father wasn't the only one who could fake casual.

“A month?” He was aghast, as though Legolas had told him it'd been years. “Why on earth didn't you mention it?”

What could he say? That he was embarrassed? His dad would assume he was ashamed of Gimli, which he decidedly was not.

“Um,” Gimli said, suddenly standing. “I'm gonna head to the washroom.” He smiled graciously at them both, but Legolas saw him reaching for the cigarettes in his pocket even before he disappeared into the foyer. The traitor.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” his father asked again.

Legolas felt like a small child, wishing he could visibly squirm in his seat. “It was personal,” he mumbled.

“Of course it’s personal,” his father said, taking a sip of his wine. “It’s a serious commitment. It’s practically marriage. I would have thought you’d want to let me know. I could have planned an amazing house party for the two of you.”

“Yeah,” Legolas said, lingering on the words “practically marriage.” It wasn't something he or Gimli had ever mentioned, but it had been there, under the surface, for years. It made him feel warm and happy, but that competed with a chill of irritation – so he was practically married now, and all his dad cared about was missing his chance to throw a party? 

Legolas wished that someone would come back, be it Gimli or the server. “We’re just… not the kind of people who want the fuss.”

Mr. Thranduilion sighed, setting the wine glass down and fingering the stem with perfectly manicured fingertips. He lowered his steady gaze on Legolas, then let it fall away awkwardly. “I know we’re not– I understand that you were always closer to your mother when it came to these sorts of things. But I’ve tried to remain a major part of your life even with you out here in Minas Ithil.”

“You have,” Legolas agreed, not looking up at his father. If his dad was about to go into one of his rare expressions of emotion, he was suddenly very glad that Gimli didn't have to witness it.

“I worry about you, Legolas,” he said. “I worry that you’re throwing your life away.”

Legolas’s head snapped up, and he glowered at his father. “I’m throwing my life away by living with Gimli?”

His father waved a hand dismissively. “Of course not. He’s the best thing you have going for you. I like the idea of you living with him, because I hope his artistic drive will rub off on you. He has goals and aspirations, while you’re… working in a bar.”

“I like St. Aulë's,” Legolas protested, his fingers relaxing from where they had clenched around the thick napkin in his lap. All the fire was gone now that there was no need to defend Gimli. 

“There’s nothing wrong with liking your job. But it’s not the same as finding your calling, about being passionate about what you’re doing.” His eyes flicked up, and Legolas realized that it meant Gimli was returning. His father's voice softened. “What are you passionate about, son?”

Turning in his seat, Legolas caught Gimli's eye. His boyfriend smirked at him, his eyes alight with a mix of concern and amusement. All the frustration and anger his father had stirred up just drained from him as Gimli slid into his seat. With just a word and a grin, he diffused the tension in Mr. Thranduilion, too, and the older man smiled.

Gimli, Legolas thought. He was passionate about Gimli. He didn't care about work or school or baseball or role playing games. He wasn't driven to create music or art, but he woke up each morning eager and happy because he knew he'd see Gimli. 

He had a feeling that his father wouldn't like that answer. He watched Gimli animatedly describing his latest art project; his whole face was aglow with passion. Was that what he was supposed to be striving for? That glow of purpose and drive? Legolas wasn't sure he'd ever felt that way – not since his judo days, at least. But he had absolutely no interest in martial arts anymore. He couldn't think of anything he felt that way about, except Gimli.

Legolas took a deep drink of the Merlot – it really was quite exceptional – and willed himself to be honest. Living and dying for Gimli was incredible, but maybe his father was right. It wasn't enough.


	3. Chapter 3

SPRING: Early June

The bar was almost empty. Two of the regulars were there, and a couple wearing wedding rings – Legolas had seen enough illicit affairs at St. Aulë's that he never assumed anyone was actually married to the person they were with – sat at a table near the bar. He listened for a bit while they carried on two entirely separate conversations, neither seeming to notice that the other wasn't paying the least bit of attention to what they were saying.

Aragorn walked from the kitchen, his phone in one hand. “If Gim and I ever get like that, just kill us,” Legolas said, motioning to the couple.

Aragorn listened for a moment, then shook his head. “Won't happen,” he said. “I've never seen two people as obsessed with each other as you and Gimli.”

“Obsessed?” Legolas asked, wiping down the already-spotless bar.

His friend shrugged. “In a good way.”

While Legolas mulled over exactly how it was possible to be obsessed in a good way, Aragorn hefted a rack full of clean glasses onto the shelf beneath the bar. He didn't usually work on Sundays – it was too quiet to need his help, really – but he was strapped for cash and begged Butterbur for more hours. And unlike the other bartenders, Legolas was fine with sharing his tips even on quiet nights like that one.

“Who was that on the phone?” Personal calls were not really allowed, but they were the only two around. He didn't care if Aragorn spent half the night on his cell phone, as long as the other half was spent keeping Legolas company.

“Frodo,” Aragorn said. “He was looking for Gimli, in fact. Apparently he's not picking up.”

“Hardly surprising.” Gimli was in the midst of something of a manic phase, art-wise. He had four sculptures being shown in a downtown gallery the next week, but his mind was already far beyond that. He'd been painting like a man possessed for the past month or so, his vision so huge that it had taken up eleven canvases so far. Legolas had taken to stopping by his studio after work to collect him and make sure he went to bed. Even though it was often past two in the morning, Gimli was usually still hard at work, unaware even of what time it was until Legolas got there.

“But that was a pretty long conversation for 'Where's Gimli?' and 'A slave to his art.'”

Aragorn laughed. “There was a bit more to it,” he said. "Frodo tells me that Sam says Merry isn't speaking to Pippin." He shook his head as he filled a plastic bin with all five of the night's empty beer bottles.

"Do you even hear what you're saying?" Legolas asked, rolling his eyes. Not that he minded information about his friends, but had his life really turned into a game of Telephone? He leaned against the back counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are we in middle school?”

"Seriously," Aragorn insisted, pausing to look meaningfully at him. Legolas was startled to realize that he actually looked worried. "Pippin's really upset, because he doesn't know why Merry's suddenly too busy for him."

"And yet Merry, Pippin, and Sam are all too busy to tell you first hand,” Legolas pointed out. “Only Frodo cares to keep you – or Gimli, apparently – in the loop. Or were you the one to call Frodo? Wanted to find out why they weren't giving you all the gossip firsthand?"

"Shut up." He swatted at Legolas with a dish towel, but Legolas had faster reflexes. He twisted away, laughing. "I think the woman at the end of the bar is signaling to you."

Legolas took her order. This was the part of his job he was best at, smiling and flirting just enough to make up for whatever crappy day she might've had. It was fun and harmless, and the more charming he was, the better his tips. Bartending came easily to him; it was all a matter of keeping track of the fifteen balls up in the air at a given time. He liked that it was both simple and challenging, and he had fun coming up with new drink types. Even after three years of working in the bar, it hadn't lost its luster yet. Of course, bringing Aragorn on board had helped – at the very least, he could count on him for interesting conversation. On the nights he wasn't gossiping or waxing poetic about Arwen, that was.

"So, why does Frodo or Sam or Pippin think Merry's shutting himself off?" Legolas asked in spite of himself, dumping two more empty bottles into Aragorn's bin.

"Frodo says that Sam was cagey about why. Began sometime after Pip's party, though."

“If Sam's all flustered, it must be a girl.” For a married guy who presumably got laid pretty often, Sam was weirdly old-fashioned about sex.

“That's what Frodo thought, too. But when I asked him if it might have anything to do with what he and Diamond were up to, he shut me down completely.” Aragorn scowled. He didn't like mysteries, particularly mysteries about his friends.

"I wonder if maybe it's about Éowyn and Faramir,” Legolas mused, trying to think of something else that Sam might hesitate to repeat. It was almost ridiculous to think that Merry and Pippin would fight over a girl, after all. “Merry's awfully close to her, so if Pip said something negative about the engagement, that could've set him off."

"Possibly," Aragorn agreed slowly. "But that doesn't sound like Merry. He usually lets things like that roll off his back."

"Maybe Pippin's just paranoid?" Legolas suggested.

"I don't know. Apparently Merry hosted a marathon Warhammer game and didn't invite Pippin."

"I thought Pippin didn't play Warhammer."

"But Merry invites everyone. Everyone who games with him, at least." Aragorn insisted. "He even sent me an invite, and I've never played it in my life."

"Did you go?" Aragorn was constantly wiggling out of gaming with Merry. It wasn't that he didn't like Merry, or that he didn't like gaming – it was just that Merry's particular brand of gaming was very intense.

"No. Too much work to be done." Ever since starting his work in the mayor's office, Aragorn had almost no free time to speak of. He was involved in a grass-roots movement within the re-election campaign, and was in charge of organizing all the foot traffic. He spent most of his time passing out fliers and going door-to-door, or else in committees, brainstorming new ways to try to win the youth vote or something.

"How's the campaign going?"

Aragorn shrugged. "Hard to say, with the polls telling us different things every day." He kept talking as he took the bin to the back room, and Legolas could catch only snippets between the loud music out front and the clatter of glass in the back. "But I think if we get the right involvement, it will really work," he finished.

"Yeah," Legolas agreed absently, refilling a man's mug and exchanging it for a couple of crisp bills. The man's thumb brushed Legolas's palm as he took his change – an accident, Legolas thought, until he saw the phone number written in bright red Sharpie across one bill. He pretended not to see it, quickly putting the cash into the till. Flirting for tips was all well and good until someone wanted to do something about it.

"So, I was thinking maybe you'd be willing to help." Aragorn leaned against the bar, somehow back from the kitchen.

"Wait, what?"

"With the urban gardening movement,” Aragorn said. “We're still not sure if we should start with vegetables or herbs or flowers, but I know you've got a green thumb. Maybe not as good as Sam, but – well, who is?" He grinned. “And not that it matters to you, but we'd pay you.”

“Urban gardening?” Clearly, Legolas had missed something. Something important, judging by the eager look on his friend's face.

“Come on, help me out. You're not doing anything. You're never doing anything except mooning over Gimli.” Aragorn's lips quirked into a disarming smile. “Besides, I don't know who else to ask.”

“You want me to help you build a garden?” Legolas asked slowly. He had no idea how they had landed on that particular topic, but he was doing his best to catch up.

Aragorn's cheeks reddened sheepishly. “I sort of want you to do it without me,” he said lightly, as though he might only be joking. But it wasn't a joke.

“To help the mayor get re-elected?” The pieces were falling together. When Aragorn nodded, Legolas could only blink at him. “Where?”

Apparently there was an empty lot in Deephollow that the city had approved for a new park. “It's near Malduin Creek, right in the middle of a kind of depressed residential area,” Aragorn told him enthusiastically. “Just where we can do the most good!”

Kind of depressed? Legolas was skeptical. Deephollow had a reputation that made Gimli's old neighborhood look like The Shire back home. Almost every time he heard of a violent crime on the news, it had happened in Deephollow. “You want me to plant a garden in Deephollow?”

“Don't be like that!” His voice was light, but Legolas heard the edge of real frustration behind it. Aragorn had grown up without much money, he remembered. He probably saw neighborhoods like Deephollow in an entirely different way. “A lot of little kids live near there! Kids who've never planted a flower or a vegetable in their lives. Some who probably wouldn't know a carrot or tomato if they saw one!”

The phone rang – the bar's phone, not Aragorn's cell, for a change. “Gimme a sec,” Legolas said as he grabbed the receiver. It was a cab company verifying their location. It took less than a minute to confirm the address, all the while Legolas was mulling over Aragorn's proposal.

He did know gardens. His mother had been passionate about their yard at home, growing everything from coral bells to red cabbage, and ever since he was small, Legolas had helped out. He remembered how satisfying it was to take a big bite out of a vegetable he'd grown from a seed. Maybe those kids in Deephollow needed something like that.

Besides, it was something to do. His dad would be pleased, at least. Not that Legolas expected gardening to be his life's passion or anything – after his mother died, he'd willfully let her plants go until they'd become a tangled, overgrown mess. Mr. Thranduilion had eventually hired a landscaper to tidy things up, and now his house had only the minimum of growing things – some sturdy shrubs and a few annuals for color in the summer. But it had been a long time since then. Maybe it was time for Legolas to get his hands into some earth again.

And Gimli had been busier than ever lately. It would be nice not to spend his afternoons waiting around the apartment.

“Let me get this straight,” Legolas said, hanging up the phone. “You want me to turn a vacant lot into a garden? In the worst neighborhood in town?”

Aragorn nodded. He looked smug now, confident that Legolas would say yes. “Well, first I just need you to plan it. We don't break ground for another month. And you'll have so much help, then – you might not even have to get your hands dirty.”

Legolas looked at his long white fingers, his impeccable nails. “But I can get them dirty if I want to, right?”

“You're saying yes?” Aragorn looked like he wanted to hug him.

With a sigh, Legolas nodded. “Yes. I'm saying yes.”

^^

If it hadn’t been for the sudden darkening skies, Gimli probably wouldn’t have even noticed the downpour that afternoon. Now that it was well past dusk and the artificial light was all he would be relying on anyway, he wasn’t completely sure if it was still raining. The steady percussion on the skylight had become just another element to the music that filled his studio while he got into the zone. 

Art was like that for him. He spent the whole time thinking and planning and letting his mind wander about everything going on in life, but if he were to ask himself later what he’d been thinking about, he wouldn’t have the foggiest clue. It was about living from moment to moment, letting the music take him from one emotion to the next and watching it all show up on the canvas.

He’d been painting a lot lately – a medium he always came back to, like a homing pigeon. Sculpture was his passion, but painting was for comfort. It was his paintings that first caught Ms. Galadriel’s attention, freshman year of high school. And Legolas had taken note of one, that first day of detention together. He felt most securely himself when he painted – it wasn't adventurous or exciting, but it relaxed him.

The music softened suddenly, and Gimli looked up to see Legolas standing by the stereo, a dripping umbrella in one hand. “It’s after midnight,” he said softly, almost as though he were afraid of interrupting his flow. “Are you anywhere near stopping?”

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Gimli said sheepishly. “Sorry.” He dropped his brush into a jar of turpentine. Now was as good a time as any to stop, he figured.

Legolas shrugged. “Did you eat anything?” He looked around the studio like he always did upon entering: his expression was thoughtful and he examined each piece as though he hadn’t seen them just the day before and a dozen times before that. Legolas actually cared about the art and the ways it represented Gimli’s personality and states of being. There were times when Gimli wondered if Legolas got more out of his work than he did.

“I had take-out,” Gimli answered, taking some older brushes out of paint thinner and wiping them with a cloth. “You?”

“I’m fine.” He looked up at the skylight, frowning. “You have a leak.”

Gimli glanced up at the pane of glass Legolas was pointing to and swore. What had been just a hairline crack that morning – and every morning before since he'd first leased the place – had become a spiderweb of broken glass. He'd meant to speak to the superintendent about it, but as long as it wasn't leaking it was hard to get up the energy to bother. Now it was definitely leaking. The drip was swift – just short of an actual stream. “What the hell happened?” Gimli growled, shifting an easel out of the growing puddle on the concrete floor.

“Torrential rain will do that,” Legolas said, gesturing at his soaking wet jeans and shoes. Gimli hadn’t even noticed. Was he so wrapped up in his work that he wasn’t noticing Legolas’s legs? That was unheard of.

“Help me out.” Gimli grabbed one of his smaller tarps and a roll of duct tape. He looked up at the sloped ceiling. It was basically all window – eighteen two-foot squares of glass in a painted wooden frame. It was old, probably original to the building with little work done on it since, but so far it hadn't given Gimli any trouble. He narrowed his eyes, irritated that it decided to leak now.

“Would you like me to find you a box?” Legolas asked, smirking.

Gimli glowered and dragged an old metal chair from his scrap corner. It was just high enough to do the trick. Legolas helped manage the weight of the plastic tarp while Gimli reached over his head to tape it to the window frame. It took several attempts, and he stood beneath the drip the whole time. Damn. It was cold.

“You got it?” Legolas asked. He braced the chair with one hand, and when he handed the last bit of tarp up to Gimli, he slid the other around Gimli's legs, holding him steady. It wasn't necessary – if anything, the warmth of his fingers distracted him from his primary task.

“Almost done,” Gimli grunted. The duct tape screeched as he tore it from the roll. His hair was soaked with rainwater and starting to drip; his sleeves were damp all the way to his elbows. All he wanted was to get home, into warm, dry clothes.

And then he felt Legolas's hands on his hips, nudging up his shirt. “Don't move,” Legolas breathed, his mouth suddenly close to his skin. Gimli shuddered, but obeyed. Soft lips found the ticklish places below his ribs; teeth nipped. “I missed you today.”

Gimli wanted to touch him, but he didn't want to disrupt the wonderful things happening to his abdomen. He swallowed hard. “I wanted to let you sleep,” he explained, as though Legolas's comment needed answering. “You looked so peaceful.” He pushed his fingers into Legolas's hair, combing it back from his ears.

Legolas craned his neck against Gimli's hand, his lips moving in a trail up his chest. “I sleep better with you,” he said, his words heavy with double meaning.

Gimli bent then, cupping Legolas's chin in one hand and tilting it up. “That makes two of us.” He leaned down – so strange, to lean down – and caught Legolas's mouth with his own. The kiss was deep and plundering, loaded with the urgency of long hours spent apart. Legolas tasted sweet like donuts or cookies or whatever other bit of junk food he pretended could be dinner. 

Another splash fell from the skylight, and Legolas pulled away, wincing as the water rolled into his eyes. “I guess I should finish taping that,” Gimli observed sheepishly. One corner – taped but not reinforced – had come loose.

“It might not hold until morning,” Legolas said, eyeing the tarp when Gimli was finished. It was taped and re-taped and taped again. It looked secure, but with water, you never could tell. “Do you have a bucket?”

Gimli mopped up the puddle that had already formed on the floor and found some assorted jars and paint pans to collect beneath the leak. Together they moved everything damageable from the center of the room, even shoving a nearby work table against the wall, just in case.

But once the studio was taken care of, Gimli's attention strayed back to his boyfriend. “You’re soaking wet,” Gimli said, leaning suggestively into Legolas. He must not have been able to park nearby – the rain had soaked his jeans all the way up to his knees. “We should probably get you out of those clothes.”

“Yours are pretty damp, too,” Legolas said huskily, plucking at Gimli's sleeve. Keeping his body pressed against Gimli's, he slowly walked forward. Gimli moved backward with each of Legolas's steps until his shoulders bumped the brick wall; he was surprised at how carefully Legolas had navigated the cluttered area. Then he found his arms being pushed up over his head, Legolas holding both wrists in one hand as the other unzipped his sweatshirt.

He shivered as it was peeled from him, even more as the t-shirt beneath it was whisked away. But then Legolas's hips pushed insistently against his, his shirt unbuttoned and his chest pressing hot and close against his skin. Gimli forgot to be cold. He hooked his fingers in Legolas's waistband, expertly popping the button. Legolas made a noise like a moan, his mouth maddeningly close to Gimli's ear.

“I came here to take you to bed,” he said into Gimli's hair. His leg pressed between Gimli's thighs, the friction of denim making it impossible to think. His heart raced, his body blindly aware of nothing but Legolas and sex and the hardness of wanting. He hoped he never got over it, that rush of love and adrenaline that flooded him whenever Legolas pressed near.

“Why wait?” Gimli growled, shoving his hands down Legolas's hips, pushing his jeans away from his skin and down. “Since when do we need a fucking bed?”

Legolas's low laugh, the delicious golden skin of his throat as he threw back his head, the way his body molded and melted into him – this is love, Gimli thought foggily. The best damn kind.

^^

The suit still felt ridiculous. Gimli looked at his shoes - the same black Vans he'd worn every day for the past two years. He was glad that he'd talked Legolas down when he'd try to buy him those sleek leather shoes with the hard soles. They might look better with the suit, but he would bet as much money as they cost that they weren't even half as comfortable.

And that night, he needed comfort. It was the first time he'd been part of a show with serious turnout. The entire gallery was packed, and the caterers doubled as waiters, slinking through the crowd with trays of champagne and fancy hors d’oeuvres. The other artists seemed relaxed and casual, as though gallery openings where people wore cocktail dresses were everyday occurrences.

Meanwhile, Gimli just hoped he wouldn't sweat through his suit.

"Yours are the best pieces," Legolas whispered close behind him.

"You have to think so," Gimli growled nervously. But really, Legolas didn't have to, and he appreciated both what he was trying to do and his honest praise.

“No, I choose to think so,” Legolas replied, squeezing his shoulder encouragingly. He looked perfectly at home there, like he was born to wear snazzy suits – fancy shoes and all. It wasn't even the same one he'd worn to dinner with his father a few weeks before. He worked in a friggin' bar – Gimli couldn't figure why he needed one suit, let alone the three or four that hung in his closet.

Usually, having Legolas nearby put Gimli at ease. That night it only made him more aware of how out of place he felt. He wondered if he was the only person there who longed for ratty jeans and a t-shirt.

“So, do they always give free booze away at hoity-toity gatherings like this?” Éomer grinned, reminding him that there was at least one other guy there who normally wore skater shoes. He held up three champagne flutes, looking pretty pleased with himself. Éomer looked good in his suit; he pulled it off better than Gimli, at least.

“I wouldn’t know,” Gimli replied, taking two of the drinks and handing one to Legolas. “So far, my stuff has been exclusive to futon shops and the Minas Tirith library.” Legolas squeezed his shoulder again. Probably figured his self-deprecation was due to nerves and wanted to assure him that everything was okay. He was right, but the squeeze only made him feel like a kid with stage fright.

Éomer didn't even notice his anxiety. “Well, I bring word from your crew back in Minas Tirith,” he said. “They all send their love and support, and Merry says he wished he could make it but had to attend a crucial SCA event.” He laughed. “I don’t even know what that is.”

“Society for Creative Anachronism,” Legolas and Gimli replied in unison. Apparently being on the outs with Pippin made Merry want to participate in the thing that irked his historian friend the most.

“Yeah, whatever that is.” Éomer nabbed a piece of shrimp from a passing server and popped it into his mouth. “So, do you want the good news, or the really good news?”

“Yes,” Gimli replied with a nervous laugh. Éomer's idea of good news usually came with a catch.

“Well, the good news is that I heard a woman over there – that one with the black beehive and purple glasses,” he clarified, nodding at a woman in a stark white dress, “say she was planning on convincing her partner that she absolutely needed one of your statues.”

Gimli stood on his tiptoes, trying to see which one she was looking at. There were too many people hovering nearby for him to tell.

“It's the weird one with the tentacles,” Éomer supplied helpfully.

“It's not weird,” Legolas defended automatically. He was always a bit on edge when it came to Éomer, though Gimli never knew exactly why. He'd stopped being outright hostile toward him years ago, but he still never seemed to relax when they were all together.

But now was not the time to worry about Legolas and Éomer. A thrill coursed through Gimli’s body at the idea of someone liking his art enough to buy it – particularly at the ridiculous prices that the Glamdring Gallery decided to charge. He’d agreed to this event in hopes of exposure, not in expectation of having people actually want to buy his pieces. “Then what’s the really good news?” he asked in disbelief.

Éomer stood straighter and pushed back a strand of hair that had come loose from his ponytail. “You are looking at a brand new student of law at the Minas Ithil University.”

“You were accepted!” Gimli threw his arms around Éomer's shoulders in a celebratory hug, almost spilling both of their glasses of champagne.

Even Legolas grinned. It was something that Éomer had been striving toward for years; they had both been rooting for him. “When will you be moving here?”

Éomer shrugged like it didn't matter, but his soppy smile gave him away. “I’m looking at places now. I have until fall before classes start, but I got a job as a paralegal in a small firm downtown; it’ll get me away from Éowyn and her mooning over Faramir, at least. Those two are nothing but pure sap these days. Not that you two are much better,” he added, rolling his eyes. “But at least neither of you are my sister.”

“We’ll help you move, once the day comes,” Gimli offered.

“Or at least buy you beer,” Legolas was quick to amend. He didn't like help people move. He’d even insisted on hiring movers for Gimli, until he was reminded how few possessions Gimli had that actually required any effort at all.

“I’ll definitely take you up on one of those,” Éomer said. And given the way he downed the rest of his drink, Gimli had a pretty good idea which one he meant. “I’m gonna take a look around, though. Try to figure out what people see in this arty stuff.”

Gimli couldn’t help but chuckle as he walked away. Éomer was an ass sometimes, but he’d proven over and over again that he was a good friend. Probably Gimli’s best friend, other than Legolas.

“And now the bromance can continue,” Legolas sighed. “Instead of losing you to your art, I’ll lose you to the Xbox and weekend marathons of CSI: Osgiliath with your favorite party-boy.”

Gimli looked up at him with mock-indignation. “We only did the CSI thing once.”

“That was one time too many.”

Gimli was trying to come up with a fitting retort when he noticed a familiar figure with grey hair over Legolas's shoulder. “Hey,” he said, suddenly changing gears. “Is that Gandalf?”

Legolas whipped around. “Where?” he asked, but a moment later, he saw him. “Yes,” he said, surprised. “At least, I think so.”

The older man had his back to them, speaking to the gallery director. Gimli was both surprised and not at his being there. Mr. Gandalf had always been an art lover – at least he had been supportive of his art in high school and seemed to know his stuff when he and Ms. Galadriel used to talk. But for him to show up there, at Gimli's first decent show – it seemed like too much of a coincidence. “Should we go say something to him?” Gimli asked.

Legolas was still shrugging when the man turned around. His familiar old face broke into a smile.

“Gandalf!” Gimli greeted.

“Gimli Glóinsson,” Gandalf said, grasping his hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “I always like to see my students succeed, but I confess, it's always sweeter when it's a troublemaker like you.”

“I suppose I did spend kind of a lot of time in your office,” Gimli conceded.

“And Legolas Thranduilion,” Gandalf added, turning his smile to Legolas. “It's nice to see that you're still at Gimli's side.”

“Always,” Legolas told him without an ounce of self-consciousness. “It's good to see you, Mr. Gandalf. How did you know that Gimli was showing his work tonight?”

“A little bird told me,” Gandalf said. “And I wanted to see if he'd lived up to the potential he'd shown in high school.”

“Have I?” Gimli asked, emboldened by his easy history with Gandalf. He was eager to hear what his old adviser thought of his current work – it was a far cry from the stuff he'd done as a teenager, after all.

Gandalf raised his shaggy eyebrows at Gimli's cheek. But then he smiled. “Indeed. You've exceeded my expectations, in fact. I have a friend who will be very interested in seeing your work.”

Legolas and Gimli exchanged a glance. “It's not just Ms. Galadriel, is it?” Legolas asked. Gimli had received a vase of flowers and a congratulatory card from her that morning.

The old man laughed. “No, not just her,” he told them. “But I'm afraid I can't say more now. With any luck, you'll be hearing from him yourself before too long.” With that last bit of mysteriousness, he bid them farewell and disappeared out the door.

“What do you suppose that was about?” Legolas asked, incredulous.

Gimli shrugged. “No idea.” And he could barely bring himself to care. He was still lingering on _exceeded my expectations_. As far as he knew, he'd never done that for anyone before.


	4. Chapter 4

SUMMER: Mid-July

When Legolas found out Éomer was moving to Minas Ithil, he'd assumed he would live in his own apartment. He had one – Legolas had helped him move his stuff into it, after all – but it was pretty clear that he must not like the place. Otherwise, why would he spend every free hour on Legolas's couch, playing video games on Legolas's television with Legolas's boyfriend?

“Hey Gim,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “I figured you'd be asleep by now.” It was almost three in the morning, after all.

Gimli looked away from the screen, startled. “Home already?” he asked blankly. He glanced at the clock. “Whoa, is it really that late?”

Éomer paused the game and put down his controller. “Holy shit. I gotta be up by seven tomorrow.”

Gimli goggled at him. “What for?” he asked.

Éomer shook his head. “A thing with my sister,” he explained. “I have to meet her in Edoras for lunch.”

“You're not driving, are you?” Legolas asked. He was irritated, but he didn't want Éomer to fall asleep at the wheel.

“Nah.” Éomer stood up and stretched. “Taking the train. But it leaves at eight-twenty.”

Gimli threw his shoes at him. “No biggie, then,” he reasoned. “You can sleep on the train.”

Legolas went into the bathroom and washed his face while Éomer put his shoes on and left. He'd had an exhausting day. They broke ground in Deephollow that week, so he'd been spending almost ten hours a day there, sometimes supervising the construction and planting and sometimes on his knees, doing the work himself. The job was great – it made him feel alive and purposeful in a way he hadn't felt since he was kid. He'd thanked Aragorn every day for thinking of him.

But having a new job didn't mean that Butterbur was going to be any less demanding at the bar. He had a full schedule at St. Aulë's that week as well, and Legolas wasn't accustomed to doing that much work. To be completely honest, he wasn't accustomed to doing much at all during the day, and adapting was harder that he expected. After a long day like that, he just wanted to come home and relax. Maybe snuggle a bit with Gimli before bed. Or in bed; he wasn't picky.

But there wasn't exactly room for Éomer in either scenario.

When he came back to the living room, Gimli was perched on the couch, saving their game. “I can't believe we played for six hours straight,” he said, shaking his head. “Éomer came over right after my shift ended. We were gonna order a pizza, but I guess the time got away from us.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow, surveying the mess of empty Jones soda bottles, apple cores, and potato chip crumbs on the coffee table. It looked like they'd had plenty to eat even without pizza. He scooped up a handful of bottles and took them to the kitchen. “I thought you were going to wash these dishes?” he called back, eying Gimli's lunch mess warily. Gimli had insisted on terminating the cleaning service, but Legolas was beginning to think that hadn't been such a good decision.

“Merry called,” Gimli said from the other room, either not hearing Legolas's question or ignoring it entirely. “He's coming into the city tomorrow. I told him he could stay the night.”

“Tomorrow night?” Legolas didn't mind having Merry over, but it wasn't much notice. The spare room had to be cleaned up – somehow some of Gimli's canvases had migrated over from his studio and they had been stowed in there to get them out of the foyer. He came back into the living room, relieved to see that Gimli was sweeping up the food crumbs. “Anyone else coming down with him?” he asked hopefully. “Pippin?”

Gimli shook his head. “I don't think so,” he said sadly. “I asked if anyone else was coming, and he said that Sam and Frodo were both busy. Not a word about Pip.”

That wasn't good. They were all still pretty much clueless about what had come between Merry and Pippin in the first place, but none of them expected it to last so long, whatever it was. There wasn't much point speculating about it, though. Between Gimli, Aragorn, Boromir, and himself, they'd covered all the most likely scenarios already. “Why's he coming to Minas Ithil?” Legolas asked.

“Said he had some gaming tournament or something. You don't work tomorrow, do you? I already switched shifts with Hama, so I'm free. Let's take him out.”

Legolas wandered into the bedroom to change out of his work clothes. He smelled like smoke and beer, the standard side effect of tending bars. He wanted a shower, but it was late. If Gimli didn't mind, he didn't. “Mind if I skip the shower tonight?” he asked wearily through the open door. He unbuttoned his shirt.

“Doesn't bother me,” Gimli called back. “You're the only one who notices when your hair smells like cigarettes.” He flicked off the lights in the other room. A moment later he threw himself down on the bed. He was already wearing the shorts he liked to sleep in and he tossed his glasses onto the nightstand and his shirt onto the floor.

“Good.” Legolas pulled off his jeans and sat on the bed. He emptied his pockets and threw the jeans into the hamper. “Tomorrow we'll have to clean this place up. What time's Merry supposed to be getting here?”

When Gimli didn't answer, Legolas turned around. He was already asleep, sprawled across his side of the bed like a little kid. Legolas didn't know whether to be irritated or amused.

He switched off the lamp and lay down next to him, smoothing a stray curl away from Gimli's open mouth. “Love you,” Gimli whispered groggily in his sleep, and Legolas's aggravation melted away.

He leaned over and kissed him on the nose. “Love you, too.”

^^

Merry was supposed to arrive on the nine o'clock train, which meant that Gimli didn't get much more sleep than Éomer had. He paced the rail station, trying not to watch the clock. Legolas had chased him out of the apartment, insisting that he would clean the place up himself, that Gimli should go meet Merry. But even stopping for a bagel and a bottle of Cherry Coke, he ended up at the station twenty minutes early. 

Luckily this was Merry, and travel came with a barrage of texted updates. _Just passed the old Minas Tirith cemetery... I still want to do a LARP there someday._ That one was promptly followed by: _Now I'm at the Calenardhon stop... is the 'h' silent?_ It barely seemed worth his while to answer – Merry's texts were always self-gratifying anyway.

Gimli continued to pace, occasionally looking at the arrivals/departures schedule to make sure there weren't any delays. But after another few minutes, he heard his name called out, and felt the thump of a hug from behind.

"It's so good to see you!" Merry cried, and Gimli missed the days of sharing a table with him in the lunch room in high school. Going weeks without seeing his friends kind of sucked, no matter how often they texted and talked on the phone. "Where's Legolas?"

"Back at the apartment. Making sure the guest room is ready." It was absurd, the amount of cleaning he felt he needed to do. It was _Merry Brandybuck_ for gods' sake – not some fancy-suited friend of his father. Gimli was sure that Merry wouldn't even notice if the area rugs were freshly-vacuumed or not.

He grabbed one of Merry's bags – did a fellow seriously need a backpack and two messenger bags for an overnight stay? – and led him down the corridor to the subway station. "Welcome to Minas Ithil," he said, gesturing to their grimy surroundings.

Merry grinned. "It's already a heck of a lot better than Minas Tirith!"

"Can't argue that. Have you eaten?" He didn't know why he asked; Merry had probably had two breakfasts by now.

"Breakfast, yes. But it's only two hours before the tournament at Tinfang Warble starts, and I won't be able to stop to eat once I enter." Gaming tournaments were often all-day affairs. Gimli tried – and failed miserably – to imagine Merry going eight or nine hours without food. “I brought snacks,” he explained, hefting up his backpack, “but I think we should hit some place for lunch, too.”

"Tinfang Warble. Is that the huge comic shop downtown?" There was a decent pizzeria across the street, and a couple of corner delis nearby. Gimli wasn't at all hungry, but he'd learned years ago that when you hung out with Merry or Pippin, it was best to go ahead and eat like them, too.

"It's a gaming store," Merry corrected. "I mean, I guess they also sell comics, but gaming is the main thing. Anyway, they're hosting a Magic tournament this weekend, and some of the best-ranked players in the world are going to be there. Plus, there's some serious prize money to be had." He rubbed his hands together like a greedy raccoon.

"So why didn't the others come with you?" Gimli asked, paying for both his and Merry's tokens. Frodo and Pippin both played Magic, and Pip was at least as good as Merry. Gimli wondered if he could get Merry to open up.

It had the reverse effect. "They're busy," Merry said shortly. The right train pulled up a moment later, and he walked through the open doors without another word. Gimli followed, silent. It was a tactic he'd often used on Merry – his own momentum usually kept him talking. He wasn't disappointed when Merry looked back at him only a few breaths later, a frown pinching his brows. "When Frodo's in town, he's usually doing research. And Sam? Well, he can't be torn away from Rose's side these days."

"You know,” Gimli began, herding him toward the back of the train car. “Legs and Aragorn and I are kind of worried about what's going on with you and Pip."

"Nothing's going on." There weren't any seats available, so Merry tightly gripped the metal pole in the center of the car and widened his stance for stability. 

Gimli shrugged and grasped the same pole. "If you say so." He was willing to let it go at that, to let Merry explain when he felt like it. Aragorn liked to push for information, and Legolas was passive aggressive, but Gimli was usually satisfied just to wait.

The train lurched forward and both boys had to adjust their weight to stay on their feet. “It'll be smoother in just a sec,” Gimli apologized, catching Merry's shoulder as his heavy bag tipped him off balance. Merry just glared at his feet, unwilling to acknowledge even physics, it seemed. He could be ice when he wanted to.

So when he finally looked up, Gimli was genuinely surprised at the hurt on his face. "It's not like this is my choice!" he cried suddenly. "Pippin's the one who doesn't know how to follow the rules!"

Gimli tried to keep his face neutral, afraid that looking too eager for information might spook his friend. "The rules?" he asked. In all the years Gimli had known them, neither of them had shown any aptitude for following rules except those within a gaming system. "What are you talking about?"

"Stella." Merry looked miserable as he said the name. 

Holy shit! It was about a girl. Gimli couldn't wait to see the look on Legolas's face when he found out. "She's the girl from the party, right?" Of course she was. No one would forget a girl that beautiful.

"Fredegar's sister. She came to Pip's party with him. And... now she's not even speaking to me, apparently."

"Because of something Pippin did?" Gimli worked hard to keep the incredulity from his voice. She'd been crazy about Merry – it was painfully obvious to anyone who saw her. And Merry was clueless – or so they'd all thought. It was a million times more likely that, if she was avoiding Merry, it had to do with something he himself had done. Or hadn't done.

Merry sighed. "Something Pippin did with Stella,” he clarified, his voice bitter. “Upstairs. The night of that party."

Gimli's eyes went wide. “What?” he gasped before he could help it. Pippin wasn't exactly sweet and innocent, sure, but he'd seriously hooked up with Stella Bolger that day? “But it was obvious to everyone there that Stella was into you!” he said incredulously. “And what about Diamond?”

The misery on Merry's face hardened. “Diamond was kissing Frodo,” he said coldly. “But Pip knew I liked Stella.”

“You told him?”

Merry shook his head. “I didn't have to!” he cried. “Pippin knows me well enough that he should've been able to tell!”

Gimli had to choose his next words carefully. It was obvious to him what must've happened, but if he said as much to Merry, it might look like he was taking Pippin's side against him. “So Pippin and Stella,” he said slowly. “Are they –?” He didn't want to say it out loud, not with Merry glowering at him like that.

Merry shook his head. “As far as I know, he's back doing whatever the hell he'd been doing with Diamond Long-Cleeve,” he said bitterly. “But Stella hasn't come back to any of my game nights since then, and she hasn't shown up at my work either. She used to come into the shop at least twice a week! Pippin ruined everything!”

Gimli wondered if Merry had bothered to tell Stella about his feelings. Or if he'd even tried to get in touch with her since the party. He guessed the answer would be no to both questions. But that might not be the solution anyway – this seemed to be more about Merry and Pippin than Merry and Stella.

And what could Gimli do about it? Absolutely nothing. He stood while the train hummed and shook around them, racking his brain for something – anything – that might make Merry feel better.

“You don't happen to have an extra Magic deck in all this, do you?” he asked impulsively.

Merry instantly brightened. “You want to play in the tournament?”

Gimli knew he'd regret it. He hadn't played Magic since high school – hadn't played seriously since seventh grade. Those guys would kill him – he might as well burn the cash for the entrance fee. But Merry was watching him so eagerly, and this was the only way Gimli knew to keep that smile on his face.

He cracked his knuckles. “Might be a bit rusty, but I bet I could win a round or two.”

Merry was already fishing around in one of his messenger bags. “I have two extra decks. One’s an Aristocrats deck – its power is in the synergy between the components. The other’s a pretty sweet goblin deck.”

Gimli chose one at random and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Gotta tell Legs,” he said apologetically. “Otherwise he'll worry.”

_Change of plans._ He texted. _Gaming with M all day._

Legolas's answer came at once. _Playing Magic? What happened?_

Gimli angled the phone away from Merry and typed as quickly as he could. _Pippin and Stella Bolger happened._

_WTF?!!!_

_I know! Merry's upset. Can't leave him._

_Good idea._ Gimli gazed at the two-word text, a swell of affection for his boyfriend washing over him. Of course Legolas would understand. A heartbeat later, another text blinked into view. _Where are you playing?_

_Tinfang. Join us?_ Legolas's cleaning schedule hadn't really left room for an all-day gaming event, but Gimli really hoped he'd come. He knew he could hold out for only a round or two at best, and at least if Legolas was there, he could keep him company while Merry wiped the floor with the rest of the players.

The answering text was as swift as the others. Legolas hadn't even had to think about it. _Not to play. But yeah._

“Looks like Legolas is coming, too,” Gimli told Merry.

Merry's smile turned into a full-fledged grin. “Then it's great I have two extra decks, huh?” he said.

“He's not playing,” Gimli was quick to correct him. “He's just gonna hang out.” But he wasn't even sure Merry was still listening. The guy was pulling a bunch of cards out of a deck box, somehow flipping through them while simultaneously holding both his bags and the train's pole. It was pretty impressive.

Gimli went back to his phone. _Merry's like :D !!!_

Legolas's message pinged back immediately. _Seriously not playing. Tell him!_ And when Gimli hadn't answered within thirty seconds: _I'm not kidding, Merry. I. Won't. Play. Magic._

He tilted the screen toward Merry, who glanced at it and shrugged. “That's what he says now,” he said, completely unfazed. “But he hasn't seen the way these goblins can overpower other creatures.”

Gimli just laughed.

^^

“I think that went well,” Aragorn said, climbing into the passenger side of Legolas’s car. Legolas was glad when he immediately put the window down – he didn't like to use the AC on nice days like that, but most people never even considered cooling the car with fresh air. He loosened his tie and leaned back against the plush leather seats. “They really liked your ideas. I haven't seen a planning meeting go that late into the evening in ages.”

“Good!” Legolas was genuinely happy to hear that his urban garden ideas had merit to them.

Now that the Deephollow project was under construction, he'd been asked to pitch some ideas for an upcoming project in Fangorn. Making a proposal like that was so far gone from anything he'd ever considered doing that he hadn't been at all sure he was going about it the right way. He’d lay awake all night trying to come up with anything that would please the mayor’s people. For a long time it seemed hopeless – his ideas were boring at best – but close to three in the morning, everything had come at him in a rush. He imagined gardens where children could dig in the dirt and gardens raised to wheel-chair height for senior citizens or people with disabilities. He pictured vegetables climbing trellises, beans on wires, even irrigation systems that fed directly from fire hydrants. He found that once the ideas were flowing, they wouldn’t stop, and he was still jotting notes as he made himself a smoothie for breakfast that morning. “I’ve got a ton more where those came from,” he added pulling his sunglasses from their place on his visor.

“That’s what we like to hear.” Aragorn grinned. “Of course, the hardest part will be getting the buy-in from the community and project managing the work-groups to get it all done.”

Legolas nodded, following Aragorn's poli-speak as best he could. If he were really going to work on this project – and any more that might come his way – he would have to step into his father's world. At least enough to understand the people he worked with. “If only we had Merry in campaign-manager mode, forcing everyone to submit to control.” They both laughed at the memory of Merry as a high school sophomore, bossing around juniors and seniors alike in order to ensure that Aragorn would be the class president.

“He could teach the mayor a thing or two,” Aragorn agreed.

Legolas switched lanes to avoid a bicycle messenger. “Are you going back to your place, or Arwen’s dorm?” he asked, trying to figure out the best route. Arwen was probably one of the few college seniors who still lived in the dorms. Gimli had once speculated that it was her way of keeping poor Aragorn at arm's length, sexually. She had rather infamously decided to hold out on that particular front until they were married or something. Legolas didn't know how Aragorn could stand it – he and Gimli had fallen into bed what? A week or two after their first kiss?

“Arwen’s.”

“Good.” He slid the car into a turn lane and flicked on the turn signal. “I don’t like driving this car through your neighborhood after dark.” He was joking. Mostly.

“Says the fellow who would go to Gimli’s every night.” Next to Gimli's old neighborhood, Aragorn's apartment was pretty decent. The stairwell going up to Aragorn's place didn't smell like pee, for one.

“Why do you think I got him to move in with me?”

“Do me a favor and send my congratulations when you see him,” Aragorn said, putting his hand out the window to catch the air.

“For getting out of that shitty apartment? I congratulate him every day.”

He laughed sharply. “No, for his first commission. I heard through the grapevine that the Aiwenórë Theater renovation project finally settled on Gimli as their young and upcoming artist to do the installation in the lobby.”

“Wait—what?” Legolas hadn’t heard any of this yet. He knew vaguely that there were other city-works projects besides his own – that much was obvious – and maybe Aragorn had mentioned the theater. Or had that been Tauriel? But a commission for lobby art? Surely he would have paid attention if Gimli had told him about that.

He wracked his brain. Gandalf had alluded to something at the gallery, weeks earlier, but he was pretty sure that the words “theater” and “commission” had not been uttered. Heck, the two might not even be related. “When was this determined?” he asked, finding it hard to keep his eyes on the road.

“Today? Or maybe yesterday?” Aragorn replied, shrugging. “I heard from the mayor this afternoon – his wife serves on the board and was part of the selection committee.”

Legolas’s stomach felt suddenly heavy. “You didn’t—”

“No. He didn’t even know that Gimli was a friend of mine. Today was the first I’d heard of the selection process, in fact.”

“Do you know how they even found Gimli?” Legolas asked. He was dying to know why his boyfriend hadn't bothered even to tell him he was being considered. “Did he apply?”

Aragorn shrugged. He pulled a bottle of water from his briefcase. “Dunno. Maybe?” He took a deep swig and offered the bottle to Legolas, who refused. “Maybe someone saw his work at the gallery?”

Legolas didn't answer. No matter how it had happened, he didn't appreciate hearing the news from Aragorn first.

He pulled up to the curb outside the tall brick building where Arwen lived. “You got a way home tonight?” he asked. Aragorn never asked for rides anywhere, but Legolas always offered just the same.

“Subway.” Aragorn opened the door. “Thanks for dropping me here,” he said. He moved to get out, but then hesitated. “Hey,” he said softly. “Gimli was probably planning to surprise you.” He gave a wry smile. “Sorry for ruining it.”

The drive home was short, but as each minute passed, Legolas found himself more and more perturbed. For years he'd been supportive of Gimli's work. He'd learned a lot about art through it. Even more about Gimli. If there had been even a chance of Gimli being selected for this commission, he would have mentioned it. Or at least, so Legolas thought. Unless there was something wrong.

Was it the money? Legolas had done his very best to keep that particular inequity as low-key as he could manage. Work for the city – particularly high-profile work like this – would pay well. Certainly better than anything he'd earned before, except maybe that grant. Was Gimli too ashamed of his current finances to speak to Legolas about the chance to earn more?

He was still mulling it over as he parked the car and headed up to their apartment. Maybe he was being too hard on Gimli, getting all bent out of shape over what might just be a simple case of embarrassment. He was probably waiting for him to come home, dying to tell someone his big news.

Legolas opened the door, a smile of congratulations already on his face.

“Fuck, Gimli, that's a hell of a lot of cash! You could get a car, even.” Éomer's voice.

“I don't need a car,” Gimli insisted. But his voice was pleased. Proud.

Legolas closed the door behind him just as a cork popped in the kitchen. “Champagne?” he asked, at that moment irritated as hell by Éomer's very existence. “Nice of you to wait until I got home.”

Gimli either didn't notice his tone or he chose to ignore it. “Legolas!” he cried, moving across the room toward him in jeans and bare feet. “You'll never guess!” He took both of Legolas's hands in his and squeezed. His face glowed with happiness.

Éomer stood in the kitchen with the bottle of champagne. There were two wine glasses on the counter. Two. So they were going to jump right to the toasting, never mind telling him? He was only Gimli's boyfriend, after all.

Legolas looked back at him, trying not to frown. “Never guess what? That you just landed a huge commission for the Aiwenórë Theater?” He dropped Gimli's hands and shoved his own in his pockets. “Or maybe the surprise is that I had to learn about it from Aragorn?”

“What?” Gimli looked confused. All the joy vanished from his expression.

Suddenly Legolas felt like a jerk.

“I'm happy for you,” he said more softly, kissing Gimli's forehead. “Go on with your celebration,” Legolas continued, looking pointedly at the sweating bottle of sparkling wine. He took off his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “But don't bother getting out another glass for me – I'm going to bed.”

^^

There was no getting around it. Legolas had been downright irritable ever since his job with Aragorn began. Even out in the sunshine, under a gorgeous sky, it bothered Gimli.

“Maybe he's just stressed,” Éomer suggested, leaning on the four-foot wall that surrounded the terrace. “He looked worn out when he came home the other night. I bet that's why he was snippy with you.”

Snippy? Gimli arched an eyebrow. He would not describe Legolas's behavior as merely snippy. But Éomer had a point about stress. He was working two jobs, after all. “P'raps.” He took a long hit and passed the joint back to Éomer. “But it doesn't make it suck any less.”

“Can you try to make it better?”

Gimli gazed evenly at Éomer. “Like what? Blow jobs with every meal?” He scoffed. “It hasn't helped.”

Éomer choked while inhaling, coughing up smoke. “Shit, Gim, you can't just spit out things like that.”

The unfortunate word choice made Gimli snort. He only said things like that because Éomer was such an idiot about it.

“But seriously,” Gimli said after Éomer's coughing fit dissipated, “he went on a tirade yesterday because I was smoking inside, even though he's the one who told me I didn't have to come out here to do it.” He stretched out on the chaise lounge and squinted up into the afternoon sunlight. Gimli didn't really give a fuck where he smoked – it was just that Legolas said one thing: _go ahead and smoke inside or this place is just as much your home as mine now_ , but it was starting to seem like he meant something else entirely.

“He doesn't even come to my studio anymore.” Gimli said softly, looking out over wall at the pointed tips of a suspension bridge uptown. It hurt to admit it, because he thought that was the largest symptom of something being wrong.

“I've never been to your studio.”

And Gimli didn't care a bit. But even an emotional toddler like Éomer should understand the implications of Legolas's absence. When a couple stopped doing things together – things they'd always done together – there was always a reason. Always. And it wasn't usually good.

But if Éomer didn't want to see that, Gimli wouldn't bother explaining. “I'm not fucking you,” he said instead. He took another hit, hoping the relaxation would kick in soon – he hadn't felt at ease in days. “I don't care if you like my art.”

Éomer snickered. “That's good, because I don't get it at all.” He tilted his head back and stared idly at the sun.

Gimli kicked him playfully. “You're such a shithead.”

“You two are solid,” Éomer said after a moment, sitting in a chair opposite Gimli and blinking rapidly. “So he's a bit prickly right now – it's not a big deal. You know, you're probably a dick to him sometimes, too. You guys'll come out on top. You always do.”

Gimli hoped it was true. It had to be true.


	5. Chapter 5

SUMMER: Early August

“It was my understanding that you _donated_ that lumber,” Legolas said into his phone, exasperated. “It's a charity project – that means we don't have the kind of budget required–” He pulled at a strand of spaghetti with his fork, separating it from the rest on his plate. “I understand that you're running a business, but your business is in Deephollow. Your company's name is intrinsically associated with the project – the whole community will see you as a philanthropist. Tell me how that's not good for business.” The owner on the other end of the connection disagreed. Legolas ended the conversation, trying to remember which of Aragorn's volunteers had told him that the donation was a sure thing. Whoever it was, they had just cost the project a couple thousand dollars.

Unable to recall, he just glared at his phone. He flipped it face-down on the table in the hopes that it would magically keep the damn thing from ringing again.

“Busy day, huh?” Gimli asked between bites of salad.

“Yeah. Aragorn told me that project management wasn't something to sneeze at, but I didn't think it would be like herding cats.” He wondered for the hundredth time how he was at all qualified for that kind of work. But Aragorn believed in him, and he got results about half the time, at least, so that couldn't be so bad.

“It's good to be home at the same time, at least.”

“Yeah.” Legolas hadn't been counting the days, but it had been some time since they'd been able see each other except in passing. They were both working their usual evening schedules, but Gimli had been spending long tracts of time at the studio lately. His installation project came with a deadline, and he hadn't worked on anyone's time but his own for before. Often, Gimli was out the door before Legolas even woke up in the morning.

Plus, Aragorn was keeping Legolas pretty busy with the parks project. The lot was starting to look like a park at last. That was the part of this job he loved: the dirt, the plants, the kids. All the rest of it was drudgery, but turning a crappy empty lot into a beautiful place where people were happy, that made the rest of it worthwhile.

“You're not working at the bar tomorrow night, right?” Gimli asked. Legolas hadn't realized that Gimli sounded tired until he suddenly perked up. “Maybe we can do something.”

“Can't,” Legolas replied. He grabbed his phone and swiped until he reached his calendar. “I'm supposed to give a presentation at an assisted living facility in Fangorn.” The schedule was intense – even before one project was finished, they were chasing community support for the next.

“After dinner?” Gimli sounded skeptical.

Legolas sighed. He would have thought that Gimli would understand. He was trying to organize something big here. “I don't know when I'll be finished. Aragorn's boss always wants progress reports after these things.” Last time he'd invited the whole team out for drinks. Legolas had gotten the impression that it hadn't really been optional, but Gimli wouldn't understand something like that. He was used to operating his own rules, the world be damned.

“I just want us to take some time–”

“This is kind of a big deal, Gimli,” Legolas interrupted. Couldn't he see how stressed he was? Of course he would rather have dinner with Gimli, but work was work. Surely he understood that. Legolas took a bite of his garlic bread and washed it down with a sip of wine. He waited for Gimli's inevitable retort, but it didn't come.

He was about to ask about Gimli's day when his phone buzzed again. Legolas dreaded looking at it. What could they possibly need now? Was it another issue with materials at Deephollow, or had they lost ground with the community in Fangorn? He finally sighed and picked it up. At least it was only a text; he couldn't handle another phone call.

_ROSIE'S PREGNANT!!_ The screen seemed to be shouting the news.

Gimli's phone pinged and he picked it up to read the text message. “Holy shit!”

Apparently it was a mass text. Leave it to Sam to be practical about it. Also, not to play favorites.

“Rosie?” Legolas asked.

“Yeah.” Gimli was staring at his phone, looking a bit dazed. “I can't believe it.”

Legolas snorted. “I can. They got married, what? A year ago? I'm actually shocked it took this long.” He smirked. “At least Sam sounds happy about it.” Legolas's thumbs moved automatically, typing back a congratulatory reply. _When's the little one due?_ he asked at the end.

“Or maybe he's freaking out and about to throw himself into the Anduin,” Gimli suggested, the quirk of a smug smile playing on his lips. “All caps and exclamation points can signify panic, you know.”

Legolas laughed. “Nyah, Sam was made for kids,” he said.

“But,” Gimli looked up at him, his face a mix of confusion and wonder. “Can you imagine it? One of us with a kid?”

Legolas had never considered the actual kid – he'd expected a pregnancy, of course, and that meant a kid, obviously, but he'd never really considered any of their group becoming a father, like his dad, or Gimli's, doing fatherly things and getting middle-aged and grey. What an odd thing it was to think of those boys from high school with boys of their own. Or girls, he supposed.

It was bound to happen sometime. He knew Aragorn wanted kids, and of course there was Sam. Of course Sam and Rose would want to start a family. But the others? “Definitely not Boromir,” he said out loud.

Gimli shook his head, agreeing. “Or even Frodo,” he added. So far, Frodo had shown barely any interest in anyone at all, let alone a person of the opposite sex who might just give him babies.

“Merry and Pip?” It was hard to picture them ever being mature enough for kids, but they'd grow up eventually. It happened to everyone.

A smile peeked through Gimli's beard. “Maybe. But let's hope any kids they have take after their mothers.”

And then, because of that smile, that sparkle in Gimli's eyes, because of Sam's announcement, Legolas suddenly imagined Gimli's kid. Oh, she would be adorable, all curly hair, plump cheeks, and dark eyes. He imagined having such a child at the apartment – no, in a house that they bought together – and found it wasn't altogether unpleasant.

“What?” Gimli had been slurping his spaghetti and suddenly looked up at him, self-conscious.

“What about us?” Legolas asked softly. “Ever imagine us having kids?”

Gimli looked at him like he must be joking. “That would be kind of tricky,” he deadpanned.

Of course it would. That wasn't what he was asking. “People use surrogates all the time,” Legolas told him, trying not to bristle; if Gimli had brought this up even hours before, he might be the one with the blank look, after all. “So you never even thought about it?” he asked tightly.

“Why would I?” Gimli shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Between Sam and Aragorn, we're gonna have kids crawling all over us soon enough. No need for one of our own!” He went back to his meal, taking the break in conversation as an opportunity to tell Legolas about the designs for his art project.

Legolas only half-listened. One of the things he'd always loved about Gimli was his tendency to plan and re-plan and basically over-plan his whole life. He pictured every possible scenario, weighing the pros and cons of every decision. Legolas would not have been surprised to learn that there had been charts and graphs involved in his decision to move in together. It was annoying, but also adorable.

But this. To have a blank space over such an important part of life didn't make any sense. Legolas didn't even want kids. Not necessarily. He just wanted Gimli to have considered it, the way he seemed to consider everything else.

He and Gimli didn't talk much about the future. Since the beginning they'd taken it one day at a time, trying not to assume or take anything for granted. But Legolas had known – ever since that first kiss, he'd known that with Gimli he was in it for the duration. Now for the first time, he wondered about Gimli. Maybe he didn't feel the same way. Maybe he hadn't thought of having kids with him because he never imagined them lasting that long. Maybe the last five years had been nothing but sex and complacency.

He watched as Gimli poured himself a second glass of wine, watched him push his glasses up before taking another bite of his salad. Legolas watched the way his face lit up as he described his plan to build chandeliers of up-cycled soda bottles. He had a plan for everything, it seemed.

Everything but them.

^^

“Where did all this wind come from?” Legolas asked, twisting his hair into a sloppy knot as another gust came sweeping up the street. Gimli was grateful for the breeze. The summer air had become stifling, and he was growing tired of constant sweat and heat mirages coming off the pavement.

“I must've brought it with me from Valinor,” Frodo said sheepishly. Apparently the summers were significantly cooler there, a fact that, if Gimli had only known it, might've gotten him to go to college after high school, rather than straight to this pressure-cooker of a city.

They were walking that afternoon – showing Frodo the sights before Legolas headed to Deephollow to plant trees and supervise the laying of sod. It wasn't a bad day for touring the city – shops and cafes had spilled out onto the sidewalks with open-air seating and shopping. People in short-sleeves and sun dresses were out in force – add the occasional street musician and the place felt almost like a fair.

Even Legolas had left his suit and tie at home, opting instead for khaki shorts and a campaign t-shirt. Top-Siders and designer sunglasses finished the effect of rich-boy-on-holiday. It was a style that suited him. Meanwhile, with his tattoos and baggy board shorts, Gimli almost certainly looked like a skater in search of his next hit. Frodo's nerd-at-prep-school look finished off their mismatched group, ensuring that passers-by wouldn't have any idea what to make of them.

“Okay, spill it,” Legolas finally said to Frodo after yet another painfully cheerful observation about life in Minas Ithil. “You didn’t come all the way from Valinor University to admire gargoyles.” It had been a surprise to both of them that morning when Frodo had called to say he was at the airport. He'd insisted that he needed neither a ride into town nor a place to stay, but he was hoping they were free to visit for a few hours.

“I told you. I’m here to speak to a specialist on illuminated manuscripts – I just wanted to see you guys first.” Frodo suddenly looked very interested in the lions perched either side of the stairs up to the public library. Too interested, in Gimli's opinion.

He and Legolas exchanged a look. “That may be true, but that's not all, is it?” Gimli said. 

Frodo sighed heavily and sat on the low wall surrounding the library, settling his backpack next to him. Legolas dropped down beside him, so Gimli stood nearby. “Everything’s changing,” Frodo said miserably.

“It’s been changing for a while,” Legolas said softly. It was true. They'd been able to sustain the feeling of high school for a few years, but slowly that giddy indestructibility of youth had given way to – to whatever they were now, no longer kids but certainly not adults, either. Gimli had felt it acutely the first time Legolas had gone to work in a suit and tie, but it had been long coming, that sense of finally growing up.

“Yeah, but… Sam.” Frodo looked positively miserable.

Gimli didn’t know if this meant that Sam was freaking out over Rose’s pregnancy, or if Frodo was. 

“It’s hard to have your best friend far away,” Frodo continued. “When he got married, I was really happy for him. He and Rose were meant to be together. But now… I feel like he’s drifting away from me, and I can’t follow.”

“I wouldn’t say you _can’t_ follow,” Gimli said softly. “Maybe you’re just following at your own pace.”

Frodo shrugged, studying the crack in the concrete. “He’s still slipping away from me, spending all of his time looking into natural childbirth and which car seats have the best safety records, and I – I just don’t know what to do. It's like he's found this whole new world that I don't know the first thing about.”

Gimli felt a familiar twist in his guts at Frodo's words. Wasn't that exactly what he was afraid would happen between Legolas and him? That sensation of someone slipping away, right beside you but nonetheless out of reach – it was exactly how he felt when he climbed into bed on those nights when Legs had to be up early and couldn't wait up until Gimli came home from work. He would lay awake and wonder what he was dreaming, only centimeters away and yet in a different world altogether.

“And do you know what your role is in this?” Legolas asked.

Frodo looked up at him inquisitively. Gimli found himself turned toward him, as well, as though his answer was as much for him as for Frodo.

But then Legolas turned to Gimli, raising his eyebrows in silent communication. And suddenly Gimli understood exactly what Legolas was getting at, what he wanted him to say.

“Be the best damn uncle that kid has,” Gimli answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “Be the guy Sam turns to when he needs a pint of beer because he’s exhausted from the crying and feeding. Talk to him when Rose is too worn out to pay him the attention he’s used to. Just… be there for him.”

Legolas nodded his approval. “It sucks to be on the outside looking in, doesn’t it? They’re this happy little unit and you’re the best friend nodding along, sharing in their joy as best you can. But they get to go home and continue being close while you’re left by yourself.” Gimli wondered if this is how Legolas felt with Tauriel and Kíli. Or maybe this kind of intuition came from somewhere else.

“Yeah,” Frodo said sadly. “I’m happy for him. I mean, I love Rose as much as I love Sam. But… yeah.”

“It’ll get better,” Legolas promised, standing and ruffling Frodo’s hair. “He’s probably envying you and your freedom, and wondering if his choices mean that you’re slipping away from him. That’s how it is with best friends, sometimes.” He stretched, looking like a catalog model with his long limbs and faraway expression. Gimli was suddenly desperate for him to meet his eyes, to let him know that he, too, had been feeling lonely. But he didn't. He looked at his watch instead. “You guys should get something to eat without me. I need to be way over in Deephollow in forty minutes, so I've got to get out of here.”

He gave Frodo a quick squeeze and kissed the top of Gimli’s head before taking off down the sidewalk. The throng of shoppers seemed to part for Legolas – as if they all recognized that he was someone worth stepping to the side for and watching.

“I’m not used to Legolas being the wise one,” Frodo said with a half-smile. He looked weary, but a bit less lost.

“Me either.” Gimli gestured to a street vendor. “Want a hot dog?”

“I doubt they have tofu,” Frodo replied.

“Ah, yes.” Gimli wasn’t used to being so wrapped up in his own world that he forgot important things, like which friends were vegetarians. “Is pizza okay, then? I know a place around the corner. It’s probably crowded, but we can bring it back here and eat on the steps.”

“Sounds good,” Frodo replied. They moved in the direction of the pizzeria, but suddenly Frodo hesitated. “But now that I’ve dumped everything on you,” he said, trailing off nervously. “What’s going on with you and Legolas?”

“What do you mean?” The knots in his stomach knew exactly what he meant.

“You guys just seem different.”

Gimli sighed. He shook his head and started moving down the street again. “You know how it is,” he explained lightly. “It’s been a couple of months since we moved in together. I guess the honeymoon’s over.”

Frodo frowned. “You’ve been together for five years without the honeymoon ending,” he said slowly.

“Yeah,” Gimli agreed softly. Yeah.

^^

“Legolas?” The voice on the other end of the line sounded too close to be on the far end of the continent. “Legolas, is that seriously you?”

“Hey Tauriel,” he said, smiling in spite of himself. It was great to hear her voice. He didn't often let himself think about just how much he missed her.

“Damn, kid! How are you?” There was laughter in her voice.

He shrugged, realizing even as he did that she couldn't see him. He would have to articulate his feelings, then. Lovely. “Better now,” he said, honest enough. He leaned on the brick of the bar's back wall. It was a hot night, but it was still cooler out in the alley than inside, behind that counter.

Tauriel hadn't lost her touch. “What happened?” she asked immediately, her voice flat and forceful. “Is your dad being an ass?”

Legolas snorted. It seemed like it'd been a long time since his dad had been the epicenter of his worst emotions. Now that Legolas was working with Aragorn – read: working for the mayor of Minas Ithil – he was nothing but supportive and proud. “Not him,” he said wryly.

She made a noise of surprise. “Not Gimli?” she asked, disbelieving. “I'm not sure I can take your side if you're fighting with Gimli.” It was a joke, but Legolas understood what she meant. Gimli had always been rational while he'd been the one moved excessively by emotion. If there were problems, most likely they came from Legolas's own overblown sense of things.

He hoped that's all it was. He closed his eyes and willed Tauriel to talk him down from this panic.

His lack of answer told her enough. “Shit, Legolas,” she said softly. “You two are bedrock. What the hell's going on?”

“He quit his job.”

She went quiet, and he imagined her on the other end of the line, maybe perched on the edge of a messy hotel bed, her head cocked to one side, her eyes blinking in confusion. “And that's a dick move, how?” she asked after too long.

He glanced at his watch. Not much time left on his break. “We're supposed to be doing this together,” he tried to explain. “Sure, my dad takes care of most of the bills, but the point is that we're supposed to be splitting the rest of it evenly. Or sort of evenly, at least. But now he up and quits his job – his _job_ , Tauriel – without so much as a word about it to me and I'm supposed to be cool with that?”

“I refuse to even acknowledge that this is about money,” she told him when he was done. “Not to say you don't have a right to be upset, but don't hide behind the money thing, Legolas. You don't care about that. I know you don't and Gimli knows it, too.”

He sucked in a breath, readying an argument, but she continued without pause. “But I agree that he should've talked with you about it. Before he quit, I mean. You two are in this together, and that means that each of should have a say – if not a vote, than at least a chance to voice an opinion – about each other's lives. But seriously, Legolas,” and her voice dropped to a confidential tone. “What's going on here? Why'd he quit and why exactly does it bug you so much?”

“He says he needs more time for his art,” Legolas explained. He hated the edge of mockery in his tone, but didn't know how to turn it off. “Not that he's even set foot in his studio in three days.”

“He's working on the theater commission, right?” she asked. He had already told her about the project, though not about the way he'd found out. Or about Éomer and the champagne. “Isn't he set up to make something like fifteen grand on that?”

“Eighteen,” Legolas confirmed. Some of it paid up front. Not exactly enough to live on for the nine months until the installation. Well, Gimli did have savings, too, and no rent to pay, but still. “It's the principle of the thing!” he cried. “You don't just quit your job to chase after something like that. Who makes their living as an artist?”

“Lots of people,” Tauriel answered drily, reminding Legolas that she was currently living out her own artistic dream. “But he hasn't been to the studio lately? Is he blocked?”

“How should I know? As far as I can tell, he hasn't even started on the damn thing.” He'd sketched about a thousand variants, though – every flat surface of the apartment was littered with papers. He'd even taken to doodling chandelier designs on napkins and junk mail. They'd had a fight about it that morning, Legolas outraged that he didn't pick up after himself and Gimli arguing that the process wasn't always tidy. As if that weren't obvious.

And then Legolas had yelled at him. Told him to take his art to the studio so it would stop cluttering up his apartment. His apartment. He felt like an asshole for that one.

“He spends all his free time sketching and getting high with Éomer Eadig,” he grumbled to Tauriel. “I don't see how quitting the tattoo shop will change that.”

“Éomer? Seriously? He living in the city now?”

“Focus, Tauriel.”

The back door opened and Butterbur stuck his head out, squinting into the darkness of the alley. “Thranduilion?” he asked. “Your break was over ten minutes ago. We need you in here – Aragorn can't keep up with this crowd.”

Legolas waved at him and quickly went back to his phone. “Hey,” he said, rushed. “Looks like I've gotta go.”

“Sure. I'm sorry I couldn't help.”

He shrugged. They needed hours to hash it out, but it seemed like there was never more than fifteen minutes when they were both free at the same time anymore. “I just needed to get it all off my chest,” he lied. “I feel better already.”

“Good,” Tauriel said cheerfully, having no choice but to pretend she believed him. “We can Skype sometime later in the week, if we're free. Love you!”

He blew a kiss through the phone and disconnected. He slid the phone into his pocket and as he walked back into the building, he tried to arrange his face into the kind of relaxed easiness that got him the best tips.

Halfway through the kitchen, his phone buzzed. A text from Tauriel. _Talk to Gimli, you idiot._ She was right. Of course. Tauriel was always right.


	6. Chapter 6

SUMMER: Early September

Gimli was frustrated as hell. He murmured beneath his breath as his hands worked, “And then the bunny runs around the back of the tree and dives into his burrow.” He pulled the tail of his tie through the knot, by this time no longer expecting a perfect trinity knot, but hoping for something passable. It looked like it'd been tied by a toddler. “Of all the fashion holdouts from centuries gone by, who the fuck decided that neckties should stick around?” he growled at his own reflection.

He wiped the bathroom mirror and untied the damn thing, determined to get it right, or at least close enough, before Boromir showed up. The steam from Legolas's shower wasn't helping, either, misting the mirror and making his hair frizz. He would say something, but he'd already learned that nothing in the world could persuade Legolas to forgo the luxury of his showers – very long, very hot showers. He'd stay in there until his skin was pink and wrinkled, singing along with his music at the top of lungs.

Gimli glanced over his shoulder, but the steam was worse inside the all-glass shower – no free peeks to be had that day. All he could tell was that Legolas was washing his hair; his hands were tangled in the heavy mass of it while the sound system blasted one of his favorite songs.

But he wasn't singing.

Gimli didn't know exactly when Legolas had stopped singing in the shower, but in the past few days he hadn't heard so much as a chorus. Worse, he couldn't remember the last time he'd noticed Legs singing at all. He knew he should ask him what was bothering him, but he didn't think he'd like the answer.

“What time is Boromir supposed get here?” he asked instead, raising his voice over the _hiss_ of the shower.

Legolas turned off the water. He stepped out, tying a towel around his hips. “Seven?” he said uncertainly. “The reservations at Bywater are for seven-thirty.” He grabbed a second towel and bent over, rubbing it against the long tangle of his hair.

Gimli admired the long curve of his spine, the taut strength in his shoulders. He wanted to put his hands on that golden skin, to pull those barely-clad hips against his own, but instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket. “It's ten-till,” he said. “We should finish getting ready.”

Apparently, even though there was no way Legolas could see him, he hadn't missed Gimli's pointed look at his mass of blond tangles. “I got this,” he said from under his towel. “By the time he gets here, I assure you, I will be ready to go.”

“I'm sure you will,” Gimli said, hiding a smile. Despite the seeming hours spent soaking under the shower's spray, Legolas was surprisingly efficient. In all the years he'd known him, Gimli couldn't remember a time when he'd been late for anything.

He gave up on his tie and headed into the bedroom. His sketchbook lay open on the bed, the twenty-seventh rendering of his chandelier drawn out in pale blue graphite. This one was a long spiral of metal, with individual translucent pieces dangling from it, illuminated by lights that would hang within the coil of the spiral. He picked up the sketchbook, flipping through a couple of pages before coming back to number twenty-seven. It was his favorite of all his designs; he was pretty sure that it was the one he had settled on.

He had to make two, one for each end of the theater's lobby. It was the biggest undertaking he'd ever attempted. The deadline, still months away, weighed heavily on him. He needed to stop planning and start building. The most important part of the chandeliers would be made of plastic – plastic soda bottles, to be specific – and he'd barely started collecting his materials.

Gimli took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. There was so much work to be done yet. He'd quit his job so that he'd have time to do it, so what was stopping him? Do it, he told himself. No more hesitating.

In the bathroom, the roar of a blow dryer caught his attention. Through the open doorway, he could see Legolas – still in nothing but a towel – brushing through the thick mass of his long hair. He dried it one small section at a time, patient and thorough in a way that Gimli couldn't manage. When he was done, his hair would be shiny and stick-straight – the kind of hair that sorority girls envied.

He had no idea how incredible he was. No idea that, wherever he went, someone was looking at him with envy or longing. Gimli himself wasn't immune. Even right then, sitting on the edge of the bed they shared, he longed for Legolas. He'd been so busy lately, balancing his days working with Aragorn and his nights at the bar, that Gimli had taken to staying around the apartment, sketching out his designs at home so that he wouldn't miss out on spending time with him.

He reflected on the fight they'd had about it the week before, his chest tight just thinking about it. He hadn't known they could fight like that. The make-up had been sweet enough: Gimli cleaned up his mess and Legolas apologized and then they'd spent the whole day together. But Gimli's memory of the things they had said to each other – and not just Legolas; some awful things had come out of Gimli's mouth too – crept up on him from time to time. How had they gotten to a place where those words were possible?

Legolas sauntered through the doorway. His hair, now sleek and dry, spilled over one bare shoulder. He was wearing dark pants and nothing else. “Your tie,” he noticed, ignoring the fact that he was obviously not at all ready to go. Gimli stood up as Legolas took the ends of his tie in his hands. He made short work of the knot, his hands moving swiftly and efficiently. “You can make art out of absolutely anything,” he chided gently, his fingers scratching at the sweet spot on Gimli's jaw beneath his beard. He felt like a puppy when Legolas did that. He loved it. “How is it that a tying a tie is beyond you?”

Gimli shrugged. If he knew, he could fix it. “They're evil.”

Legolas laughed, grabbing his phone from the dresser. “Missed a call from Boromir,” he announced. “Probably running late.” He listened to his voicemail, his expression changing.

“What's wrong?” But Gimli could already guess. They hadn't seen Boromir in almost two months. His team's schedule was relentless, and he was rarely in town for more than a day or two at a time. That he was supposed to be free that night was something of a coincidence, one that Legolas and Gimli had jumped on.

“He can't come.” Legolas's tone was flat. Disappointed. “His team headed out early to Calembel. He was packing up his stuff when he called.”

“Man, that sucks.” It was Legolas's birthday. Boromir was the only one who'd been able to come out with them that year, and Gimli knew he'd pinned a lot on having him along. “We could still go out,” he pointed out. “It's a nice place, and we could do something special after.” He had no idea yet what that might be, but he was good at thinking on his feet. By the time dinner was over, he would have something awesome planned.

“Nah,” Legolas turned to look out at the city. The early-evening sunlight was golden, glinting on buildings and making the mountains in the distance glow. “Let's just stay in.”

Gimli was troubled. Legolas had never wanted to skip out on birthday festivities before. “Are you sure?” he asked skeptically. He pulled out his own phone, but hesitated before calling the restaurant. “Those reservations were hard won – it might be months before we get another chance to go there.”

“Gimli.” Legolas's voice was close now, his breath against his ear. His hands grasped his shoulders and turned him around. Long fingers hooked into the knot of Gimli's tie, and it unraveled as easily as it had tied. “Let's just stay in.”

Oh. Gimli's mouth went dry. Things had been… different lately. Legolas had been busy. They had been bickering. Fighting.

Within that first heartbeat, Legolas had popped the first four buttons of Gimli's shirt, his nails skimming the sensitive skin of his throat. “Should I,” Gimli began, stopping for a shuddering breath as Legolas dipped close, nipped. The scent of him – his shampoo, his body wash, _him_ – made him lose himself and what he was trying to say. He struggled to find it again. “Should I call the restaurant?”

“Mmnn.” It sounded like no. Gimli allowed himself to be pushed back onto the bed, allowed Legolas to shove his sketchbook onto the floor.

“Yeah,” Gimli said huskily, hooking his leg around Legolas in order to pull him closer. “We should stay in.”

^^

The bar was noisy and crowded; Wednesday night was the busiest weeknight at St. Aulë’s. It was karaoke night, but Legolas guessed that most of his customers would be there anyway, looking to blow off steam to make the rest of the work week tolerable. He didn’t mind a crowd, though. The noise was energizing and it meant there was no down time to stand around getting lost in thought.

And tonight Gimli had brought Pippin to the bar. Upon arrival, Pippin had explained that he and Faramir had come to town to watch Éowyn's roller derby team compete against the Morgul Misses, who were apparently Minas Ithil's home team. After the event, Pippin had decided that Faramir needed some time alone with his fiancée, and sought out Gimli instead. They’d perched at one end of the bar, Gimli drinking hard cider while Pippin downed gallons of Sprite. The point of the outing, Legolas had gleaned, was to get Gimli out of the apartment, which he wholeheartedly supported, particularly since they chatted with Legolas whenever he had a free moment.

“So Éowyn's into roller derby now?” he asked as the DJ started the karaoke. The first twenty minutes or so tended to be quiet for him at the bar.

Gimli grinned. “I didn't even realize that Minas Tirith had a team. They're called the White City Rollers. Éowyn's game name is Warrior 'Wyn, which is fucking awesome.”

Pippin nodded. “She got into it while she and Faramir were split up. I think she was hankering for some violence, and her license had been taken away after the drag racing fiasco.”

Legolas shook his head. “So, she dumps him and then tries to find other people to hurt?” His voice was even more bitter than he’d intended. Apparently the resentment hadn’t dissipated after all.

Pippin took a long slurp from his drink. “You’ve got it wrong,” he said over a drunken rendition of “Don't You Forget About Me.” He glanced at the singer and made a face. “Ugh, I could have pneumonia and still sing better than him.”

“What do you mean?” Gimli asked.

“That guy's awful! Can't you hear him?”

“I mean about us getting it wrong,” Gimli said patiently. Legolas leaned on the bar, getting a bit closer to hear over the – Pippin was right, the poor guy couldn't carry a tune – music.

“Oh.” Pippin blinked for a moment, seeming to need a pause while his brain backtracked. “It was Faramir who ended it – not Éowyn.” 

Legolas and Gimli exchanged confused looks. It'd been over a year ago, but there was no question what they'd been told. Boromir had been explicit about exactly who was to blame for that particular split. “How do you know that? And – why didn’t Faramir say so?” They'd had some pretty nasty things to say about her back then, Legolas realized. And Faramir hadn't said a word.

“If you think back,” Pippin said, his tone annoyingly wizened, “he never said that she did the leaving. Boromir said so, and we all assumed he knew. Faramir just let us believe whatever. He was so broken at the time – just lost his dad, thought he might not walk again. I'm guessing he didn’t tell us because he knew we’d tell him how stupid it was to think Éowyn couldn’t love him because of his injuries.”

Gimli slid his empty bottle toward Legolas, who unconsciously grabbed him a new one. “So you’re saying that Faramir, in an understandable fit of self-pity, lashed out at Éowyn and her response was to go hit things?” He knew the incredulity in his voice bordered on dickish, but he couldn't help it. Weren't girls supposed to the gentler sex?

“I wish,” Pippin said. His voice got soft and his lips tightened into frown. “Merry said– I heard later that Éowyn only did the racing because she was suicidal. I don’t know if it’s true – sometimes I think that sounds like her, but sometimes I'm not so sure. Maybe she wasn’t trying to kill herself, but just get hurt? Like Faramir? I don’t know.”

It seemed like the kind of thing Gimli might have some insight into, given how much time he spent with her twin brother. “Gim?” Legolas asked. “You hear anything about this?”

Gimli was obviously uncomfortable. “I suppose I did, though I didn't put it together at the time. After her arrest, Éomer said she spent some time at some kind of spa. I knew she was out of control, so I thought it was a relaxation thing. I sort of laughed it off.” His voice had gotten quiet, and then he looked at the bar counter, troubled. “Damn. Éomer must've thought I was such a douche.”

A guy came up with a complicated order for his whole table, and Legolas stepped away to work on it. He was glad for the distraction. He'd spent a lot of energy actively disliking Éowyn that year – not forgiving her for something that wasn't even really his place to forgive. But now, finding out that she was the one who'd been dumped – and that she'd been brought so low over it – it made him feel like a jerk.

Back at the far end of the bar, Gimli and Pippin were still discussing it. “But at the end of the day,” Pippin said, “they got back together and everything’s happy and shiny.”

“Except with Boromir,” pointed out, frowning.

Pip ignored him. “But in the meantime, Éowyn discovered that she genuinely likes shoving people, so she stuck with roller derby.”

“Whatever floats your boat, I guess,” Legolas said. After all those years in martial arts, he could understand the drive to be active and to compete. But roller derby? It seemed to be less about skill and more about girls wearing short shorts and knocking people on their asses.

“So what made you guys come up for this particular… match?” Gimli clearly didn’t know what a competition between roller derby teams was called. For that matter, neither did Legolas. “Wouldn’t a weekend be better, now that the new semester has started?” Pippin and Faramir were both students at Dol Amroth Community College in Minas Tirith.

“Boromir's in town tonight,” Pippin said at last. “Faramir was going to see him. To come clean.”

Legolas imagined that such a conversation might go a long way toward changing Boromir's mind about Éowyn, but he still couldn't imagine their friend being okay with his little brother engaged straight out of high school. “But wait. You said you were giving him alone time with Éowyn?” Legolas asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Nyah. I lied.” Pippin smirked and grabbed a handful of pretzels. 

“Don’t eat them all,” Legolas warned. Legolas was supposed to let the patrons eat as much as they wanted – the snacks absorbed the alcohol and let people drink more – but he figured Butterbur's rules hadn't been designed with Pippin Took in mind.

“Isn't that what they're here for?” Pip asked, his mouth full. Legolas scowled, but Pippin was undeterred. He grinned at Gimli and launched into a story about an all-you-can-eat restaurant he'd been to the week before.

Legolas was only half listening, his attention distracted by the karaoke across the room where a middle-aged woman was growling out a pretty impressive rendition of “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. Not something the DJ got to play regularly, to be sure. He felt the back of his neck grow warm at the explicit lyrics – it was their song, Gimli's and his, mortifying as it would be to admit it out loud.

Something in Pippin's story pulled Legolas's attention back to his guests. “What did you just say?” he interrupted suddenly.

Pippin grinned. “I said that they basically chased us out, but they didn't even notice that she had a plastic bag of, like, two pounds of chicken nuggets under her shirt like a baby bump.” He laughed. “Typical Di. The only kid she'd ever have is a food baby.”

Di? As in Diamond? “Don't you mean Stella?” he asked.

Pippin gaped incredulously. “I think I'd know my own girlfriend,” he said. “It's definitely Diamond.”

“Girlfriend?” Gimli's eyes widened at the word. “So she's your girlfriend now?”

Pippin looked sheepish. “We sort of decided that we didn't like the idea of seeing other people,” he said.

Gimli nodded knowingly. “You mean you didn't like her kissing Frodo at your party,” he said. Legolas admired the smooth way he'd brought that up.

“Yeah. That was stupid.” He tipped his empty cup toward Legolas for a refill. “I suppose that's why you mentioned Stella Bolger?” he asked.

Handing back his full cup, Legolas nodded. “You have any idea why Merry's not talking to you?” he asked. “'Cause if I were trying to sort it out, I'd start there.”

To Pippin's credit, he looked genuinely pained. “I figured,” he said, resigned. “I honestly didn't think he would care – they weren't together. Still, it wasn't my brightest move.”

Legolas leaned over the bar. “Seriously, Pip, what went on between you and Stella? Apparently she's bolted. Merry and Sam haven't seen her since that night.” He was a little afraid that Pippin had pushed too hard, persuaded her to do something she didn't want.

“It was nothing, really,” Pippin said slowly, shaking his head and frowning. “I flirted a bit and she was giggling a lot – I guess she'd had too much to drink – but I was actually surprised when she agreed to go upstairs with me.”

Gimli caught Legolas's eye in silent communication. Apparently he was worried about the same thing, and this wasn't a great start.

“So we got up to my room and sat on the bed,” Pip continued. “I moved to kiss her, but she put up her hand, kind of pushed me back, and asked me flat-out whether or not Merry liked her.”

Legolas was kind of impressed. Apparently the girl had more backbone than it had seemed.

“And what did you tell her?” Gimli growled. His face was dark with disapproval.

Pippin looked upset. “I was drunk,” he said first. “And it kind of pissed me off that she would be asking about Merry when she was supposed to be hooking up with me.”

Alarm shot through Legolas. “You didn't force her, did you?” he asked, aghast.

Outrage flooded Pippin's whole body. He stiffened. “What the hell kind of monster do you think I am?” he cried.

“He was just checking,” Gimli said shortly. “We both know you're not that sort. But get back to it. What exactly did you say to her about Merry?”

“I didn't know that Merry liked her,” Pippin insisted. “No one did. I'd bet that Merry didn't, either!”

“And that's what you told her? That you didn't know?” Gimli crossed his arms over his chest.

“I told her that Merry didn't like anyone, that she might as well give up on him because he had at least a few more years of clueless in him before he'd notice any girl.” Pippin's voice got softer, and Legolas had to strain to hear it over the karaoke. “I was mad. I wanted to make out with this girl, not talk about whether or not my best friend liked her. So then I tried to kiss her again, but–”

“You were mad, but you still tried to hook up with her?” Legolas asked, disapproving.

Pippin had no answer for that. He put another handful of pretzels into his mouth and chewed belligerently. “She shoved me away and left,” he said thickly as soon as he'd swallowed. “Happy?”

“Everything is awesome!” Legolas winced at the timing of the three girls singing on the makeshift stage. “Everything is cool when you're part of a team!” It was ridiculous – nearly impossible – to try to have a serious conversation during karaoke. Pippin obviously agreed, because he scowled at the singers and hopped off his bar stool.

“Bathroom,” he said shortly and disappeared around the corner. They both watched him go, Legolas wondering how the heck this was going to resolve itself.

“Let's see,” Legolas said, turning to Gimli with a wry grin. “The girl that Pippin was not dating kissed Frodo, and in retaliation, Pip kissed the girl that Merry secretly liked. So who does Merry have to kiss to make this square?”

Gimli twirled a pretzel stick in his fingers. “Sam Gamgee,” he said at once. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Legolas agreed with a chuckle. If only life’s problems actually could be sorted out so easily.

^^

“Who threw that red shell?” Legolas heard Pippin's shrill cry before he even opened the door. It was just after three in the morning – he hoped Pip and Gimli hadn't been at it all night. He didn't need the neighbors complaining to his father about noise.

He unlocked the door and tried to push it open, but something was blocking it. Legolas pushed harder, confused by the sound of crunching plastic. “What the hell?” he muttered, squeezing through the skinny opening.

His foyer was filled with trash bags. There had to be four or five, all filled to bursting with what he assumed were plastic soda bottles. “Gimli?” he called, irritated. “What's this?”

To his surprise, it was Éomer who bounded around the corner, a goofy grin on his face. “Presents!” he cried happily. “I went dumpster diving and found all these great bottles for Gimli's project.” He was wearing dress pants, his pale shirt sporting some mysterious stains. Dumpster diving? In work clothes?

“Lovely,” Legolas said drily, kicking aside some of the bags and not even trying to hide his revulsion. “I always wanted trash filling up my apartment.”

“It could be worse,” Pippin said from the sofa, his eyes still completely focused on the television. “Imagine if Gimli were working with some other medium, like… like....”

“Fertilizer? Raccoon urine? Human vomit?” Éomer's grin widened with each disgusting suggestion.

“I take it Faramir never called you?” Legolas asked, pointedly ignoring Éomer. He dropped his keys on an end table and a perfunctory kiss on Gimli’s upturned lips. Before they'd left the bar, Pippin had said that he would need a place to stay if he didn’t hear from Faramir. Legolas couldn't think of too many reasons why he might not – did Pip expect Éowyn and Faramir to wind up at the bottom the river or something, or was he just alluding to the possibility that Boromir might have a change of heart and let them stay overnight at his place? With Pippin it was better not to ask.

“Nope,” Pip replied. And he punctuated it with a belch. A long, wet, disgusting belch that made the air around him smell like orange soda. Legolas winced. 

“You win!” Gimli declared. He wasn’t talking about the video game, since the animated cloud had just come out to indicate they had one lap to go. That meant only one thing: these three disgusting pigs of friends had been up until three AM playing video games and having belching contests. It was like they were back in high school – the year he was happy to have missed.

Gimli, to his credit, noticed the disdain on Legolas’s face. “I just got a shipment of limited edition bottles from Valinor. Frodo sent them. So we had to drink them all if I’m going to be using them.”

“I thought the point of up-cycling is that you make art out of waste, not create waste just to make art.” 

Gimli shrugged. “Ideally. But that's when you don’t have a deadline and a bunch of suits to impress. These bottles are really cool.” He held one out for Legolas to look at; it featured an unusual raised diamond pattern, and glancing around to where they lay empty, scattered across the living room, Legolas could see that they came in a variety of interesting colors.

“And they all had to be drinken – drunk – tonight,” Éomer said. His speech was slurred, which meant he’d probably been drinking something mixed in with his soda. “Gim plans on beginning the first stages tomorrow.”

“It's already tomorrow,” Legolas said with a scowl. “Couldn’t you have taken all the trash you collected to the studio instead?”

“Don’t know where it is,” Éomer replied with a shrug. “Gimli doesn’t let me come over because he says I wouldn’t know art if—who dropped that banana?” His attention was entirely focused on the game again. He let out a string of curses as his kart – manned by a similarly cursing Waluigi – spun out of control.

“You guys need to keep it down,” Legolas finally said, his voice tired. “I could hear you outside the apartment and it’s almost three-thirty.”

He dropped into a chair and pulled off his shoes. The soft rug beneath his feet felt so good that his mood started to mellow almost immediately. He breathed for a long moment, trying to banish the irritation. It wasn't like he'd expected a quiet night with Gimli – not with Pippin there. So what did it matter if Éomer had also shown up? Or that he'd brought huge bags of trash with him? Or that Gimli didn't mind – worse, he seemed not to know to mind. He closed his eyes. He was sick of arguing with Gimli; lately, it seemed like they were fighting even when they weren't.

Tonight, he decided, he would let it all go. He picked up the last controller just as the others finished their final lap. “I'm in for the next race.”

Gimli tossed him a grateful smile, and Legolas was suddenly glad that he hadn't stalked off to the bedroom. “I'm off tomorrow,” he said softly. “Wanna go ride Barad-dûr?” Summer was almost over, but they hadn't yet found the time to take their traditional ride on their favorite roller coaster.

Gimli's face softened, his eyes warming in a way Legolas hadn't seen much lately. “I can't,” he said. He gestured to the bottle in his hand, the others scattered all over the coffee table. “Gotta finally start this thing while my energy is high.”

Disappointment washed over him, but Legolas shrugged, determined not to show it. Gimli was right. He'd been struggling with this piece since he first got the commission – it only made sense that he get straight to work now that inspiration had finally hit him. The park would be open on weekends even through autumn, after all. “Another day, then?”

“Absolutely,” Gimli promised. “Soon.”


	7. Chapter 7

FALL: October

Legolas paced outside the theater, listening to the phone ring and ring on the other end of the line. “Answer your damn phone, Gim,” he muttered under his breath, then cursed as it went to voicemail. Maybe he was still in the shower? Legolas hoped not – if he was running that late, he might miss the first act.

He tried texting. _Where are you? The show starts in ten minutes._

Aragorn and Arwen were waiting inside, and Legolas didn't want to go back to them before he got a hold of Gimli. Legolas had bought the tickets two weeks before, and Gimli had made their late dinner reservations himself, so it wasn't likely that he'd forgotten.

Legolas hoped he hadn't forgotten.

His phone buzzed. _Still at studio. Sorry. I'll try to catch you guys at the restaurant._

He stared at the screen, incredulous, until it blinked off. He swiped his finger over it and read the text again. Gimli had assured him that he'd be there, presentable, in time for the show. He'd promised just that morning!

_WTF, Gim?!_ Legolas texted back furiously.

_Sorry._ The response was swift – at least Gimli had the sense to realize he wasn't getting out of it that easily. _Had a breakthrough. Lost track of time. I'll make it up to you._

_Yeah? How?_ Legolas really wanted to know just how he thought he'd do that. He hadn't said anything yet, but he'd been planning on surprising his boyfriend with news that evening. Legolas's work on the Deephollow garden had been such a success that he'd been offered a permanent position doing the same kind of thing for the City Parks Council. This dinner with Arwen and Aragorn had been a well-timed coincidence, and Legolas was excited by the chance to celebrate with more friends.

For a long time, his phone was silent. He wondered what Gimli was thinking, whether or not he'd made him mad with his angry messages. Part of him hoped so. But then it vibrated once more.

_We'll talk later. Don't want to make you late._

And then, five seconds later, as though it were an afterthought: _Love you._

Legolas was still standing there, debating whether or not to call and have it out right away, when Aragorn and Arwen found him.

They looked amazing together, both of them tall and gorgeous and dressed for a night at the theater. They both smiled when they saw him, and Arwen's heels clicked on the concrete as they walked over. “Get a hold of Gimli?” Aragorn asked.

“It looks like he can't make it, after all,” he told them, as smoothly as he could manage. He was determined not to add to the ruin of the evening by acting hurt or petulant or angry. Never mind that he felt all three in spades. “I'm sorry.”

Arwen put her hand on his arm, her expression understanding. “It's okay,” she said soothingly. “The three of us will have a good time without him.”

Legolas was about to agree when Aragorn shook his head. “No,” he said abruptly. “It's not okay.” He looked hard at Legolas, his eyebrows furrowed. “This isn't the first time, is it? You’ve mentioned it before, at work.”

“It's not a big deal,” Legolas protested softly, convincing exactly no one. “What's a missed date here and there? He's been busy with his artwork. And I've been working two jobs, too.”

Arwen looked troubled. “Are you guys okay?” she asked, her voice low and somber.

Legolas didn't know what to say. He didn't know where to look, how to remain calm and casual. Arwen's question was one he didn't have an answer to, one he'd rather not scrutinize.

“Here’s a new plan,” Arwen said, linking her arm through Legolas’s. “We skip the show and go for cocktails. And by cocktails, I mean a club where we can dance and drink and blow off steam.” She smiled conspiratorially, and Legolas's heart lurched with gratitude.

Aragorn looked down forlornly at the tickets in his hand. They weren’t exactly cheap seats – he'd moaned about the cost for two nights at the bar after buying them. But he still shoved them into his pocket. “I’m with Arwen on this one,” he said, his mouth twisting into a wry smile.

Never had Legolas felt more lucky to have such good friends. “But we’re supposed to meet him at the restaurant after the show,” he pointed out. It wasn't that he didn't like Arwen's plan, but it felt disloyal to agree without some kind of protest.

“Nope,” Arwen replied. “Text him and tell him there’s been a change of plans. Tell him not to wait up.”

With that, the decision was made. Arwen gracefully hailed a taxi and they climbed in, heading further uptown to an address she rattled off to the driver.

“He won’t even notice anything’s different,” Legolas pointed out. “He’ll be working away, not even thinking about the fact that he’s blown us off.”

“We’re not doing it for him,” Arwen said firmly. “We’re making sure you have fun tonight. It’s just his loss for skipping out.”

“You barely see him between work and his odd studio hours,” Aragorn said, leaning over his girlfriend to look at Legolas.

“Yeah,” he admitted. It wasn't exactly a secret that his schedule and Gimli's were seriously out of orbit with each other, so he didn't understand why saying it out loud felt like he was giving something up.

“Well, it’s nice to remind yourself that you can have fun even while you’re missing him.” Legolas wasn’t sure how much fun he’d have getting drunk with a couple who had the tendency to gaze lovingly at each other. But Arwen did mention dancing, and he had a feeling that meant he and she would be on the dance floor while Aragorn fetched drinks. That had promise, at least.

And then he remembered, suddenly, coming home to find Gimli and Éomer celebrating his commission. Two glasses of champagne, two friends toasting to Gimli’s success while Legolas was still in the dark. “Let’s celebrate,” he said finally. 

He picked up his phone, took Arwen’s advice, and sent a quick text: _Change of plans. Canceling the reservation at Tower Hill. Don’t wait up._

^^

Gimli had been cutting bottles into plastic spirals for the past nine days. He'd gone through four pairs of snips, two pairs of gloves, and nearly a whole bottle of aspirin for his sore, cramped hands. He surveyed that night's mess – progress, as he preferred to think of it. Only seven bottles were left intact on his work table. A lawn-bag sized trash can nearby was almost completely full of bottle bottoms; those would be made into flowers and other embellishments eventually. The concrete floor around his stool was covered in spirals that piled up as deep as his shins. They were mostly clear – maybe twenty-five percent were various shades of green and another ten percent other colors – but all together the pile looked like a pale aquamarine sea.

At first he'd planned to store the spirals in bags or crates, but their sharp edges shredded the trash bags he'd bought for that purpose, and tubs and crates turned out to be too expensive to be practical. Instead, he'd cleared out a large corner of his studio – the paintings he'd stored there moved temporarily to the apartment – and after each night's work he swept the plastic into a pile there. The pile was starting to look impressive. It made the constant ache in his knuckles feel worthwhile.

The sun was coming up. Gimli looked wearily at the remaining bottles. The last of the night's quota. “Fuck it,” he groaned, pitching them one-by-one back into his dwindling cache of untouched bottles. He wanted to go home, to crawl in bed and sleep next to Legolas for the hour or so that remained before Legs had to get up for work.

He was reaching for his broom when he heard footsteps in the hall outside.

Legolas. His chest tightened. No one else knew he was there at that hour. No one else would bother to drag themselves all the way out there that early even if they did know. His pulse quickened, hopeful. Terrified.

They hadn't talked about how he'd bailed on the show, about how pissed off Legolas had been. In the week since then, all of their interactions – rare as they were – had been pleasant, if impersonal. Gimli had expected his boyfriend to hiss angrily as soon as he came home the next morning. This cool, impassive Legolas was new, and it made Gimli nervous.

The knock at the door made the breath catch in his throat. Even if Legolas was there only to have it out at last, it was still better than the uncertainty of waiting for it.

He slid the door open, startled to see Aragorn – not Legolas at all – waiting on the other side. He was dressed to run – in shorts and a microfiber hoodie, an old, off-brand MP3 player strapped to one arm. His hair was damp with sweat, and Gimli realized that he'd probably run the three or more miles from his apartment.

“Still running?” he asked motioning with his broom that he should come in. Aragorn had run cross-country in high school, but he'd once confessed to Gimli that it was only because his mother couldn't afford the equipment fees for any other sports. He hadn't figured he'd liked it enough to keep running all these years.

Aragorn grinned. “Gotta keep this body looking good for my lady,” he said, striking a ridiculous pose.

Inwardly, Gimli snickered. As if she ever used it. “Where you get the energy is beyond me,” he said instead. Speaking of Aragorn's relations with Arwen, or rather the lack of them, was taboo unless Aragorn himself brought it up. “What time d'you get up?”

He shrugged. “Four-thirty or so. If I don't run a few miles every morning, I can't sit still at work.” Gimli remembered he'd had the same problem in middle school, but he had thought that Aragorn had simply outgrown that kind of restlessness.

He offered Aragorn a bottle of water and he took it gratefully, perching on a stool while Gimli swept up the fruits of his night's labor. “So what brought your feet in my direction?” he asked as he pushed the heavy mass of plastic into the corner. “Not that I'm not glad to see you,” he amended.

Aragorn shifted awkwardly on the stool, downing about a third of the bottle in one gulp. “Needed to talk to you, actually,” he said at last. “Away from Legolas.”

Gimli's insides jumped. For half a second he thought that Legolas had sent him, a childish but effective way to break up without having to bother with really doing it. But that was ridiculous. They were adults. Legolas hadn't been that immature even in high school. Besides, Aragorn wouldn't go along with such a scheme.

By the time Gimli realized that he had actually considered the possibility that what was wrong between Legolas and him might be wrong enough to break up over, Aragorn was talking and he wasn't able to think about it.

“I know you're busy here,” Aragorn was saying, his eyes darting around the room, checking the place out. It was the first time he'd been to the studio, Gimli realized. “This commission is the biggest job you've ever had; no one blames you for throwing yourself into it. But –” Aragorn paused, and Gimli realized there was only one thing that could follow that particular conjunction. There was only one “but” in Gimli's life.

“Legolas,” Gimli said tiredly. He leaned the broom against the wall and took off his glasses. Damn, he was worn out.

Aragorn looked relieved, and Gimli wondered if he'd thought he'd meet resistance, talking about Legolas. “Do you think you guys are okay?” Aragorn asked softly.

Gimli had always thought that he and Legs were indestructible. Now he wasn't sure. “Don't you?” he asked. Had Legolas said something?

Aragorn looked gravely into his eyes. “No,” he said simply. “I don't.”

And suddenly Gimli felt like he might cry. It was something he hadn't wanted to know, something he'd hoped would disappear if he didn't look at it head-on. But if Aragorn recognized it, it must be real. “How mad is he?” he asked after a moment too long. His voice sounded like he'd swallowed steel wool.

“It seems to me,” Aragorn said, parsing out his words carefully, “that he's been simmering for a long time now.”

Gimli knew that. All that bickering, their frustration, the way Legolas had been looking at him like he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. They didn't even bother making up after fights anymore, which made each one feel more like a skirmish in a larger war.

And then Gimli had pretty much stopped coming home.

He'd convinced himself that it was the work – the artist consumed by his muse was a tired cliché, but it suited his purposes. And Legolas had been so distant, his own work so important that Gimli's no longer mattered. Gimli no longer mattered.

Legolas hadn't so much as touched him in weeks. It seemed that sex was off the table entirely; when they weren't snapping at one another, Legolas didn't seem interested. Which wasn't at all like the guy Gimli had dated for the last five years.

"Sometimes..." Gimli began, unsure how to phrase the thought that kept drifting to the forefront of his mind while he'd kept himself busy cutting those damned bottles.

Aragorn leaned forward. "Sometimes?" he prompted.

Gimli sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if moving in together was a mistake." There. It was out, and it couldn't be swept into a corner. So he continued, "We were fine when we had our own spaces. Everything was fucking perfect, and then I moved in to his apartment and it fell to shit, and I don't know if it's because of his job or mine or because I'm a mess and he's a neat-freak. I can't move without worrying that I'll piss him off.”

Aragorn didn't say a word, and Gimli felt a pressure to continue from deep inside his chest. “And he hasn't come here in ages.” He'd added it as though it were an after-thought, but he knew that it was more than that. A lot more. "He treats my work like it's a game," he confessed, his voice low. "Like I'm playing in my studio while he's working so hard to change the world. He was furious when I stopped doing the tattoo thing, and after that he lost all interest in what I do."

“Damn.” Aragorn took a long drink of water, his expression troubled. “I don't know. I thought this was just about you being too busy, but there's more to it, isn't there?”

Gimli looked at his scratched-up hands. He'd hidden in his work, made himself too busy. But it was only because he couldn't stand to stay at home watching Legolas growing distant. “I thought it was better to make myself scarce,” he admitted softly.

Aragorn nodded like he might understand. "But you know, standing him up and being an ass doesn't really help the situation."

Gimli closed his eyes, feeling completely defeated. "I know."

"You guys should talk it out. And stop putting pressure on each other just because you thought your relationship had been perfect before. Chances are, it wasn't. I've never seen one that was."

"There's you and Arwen."

Aragorn gave a bark of sarcastic laughter. "If we were perfect, I think she'd spend more time with all my friends. We've got plenty of our own issues, too."

Gimli considered that. It was true that they hardly ever saw Arwen when a bunch of them got together. And there was the abstinence-thing, which had to qualify as “issues” for Aragorn if anything did. “How do you make it work?” he asked at last.

Aragorn grinned. “We talk,” he said. “And I never for a second forget how lucky I am that she wants to be with me.”

Lucky. How long had it been since he'd felt lucky to be with Legolas? Gimli wasn't sure, but he suspected it coincided with the end of Legolas's wanting to be with him.

^^

It was almost nine o’clock when Legolas finally got home. So much for a lazy evening and dinner and – he didn’t know, _something_ with Gimli. Chances were, Gimli was already at his studio doing whatever it was with those plastic bottles that made his hands look swollen and arthritic.

True to his expectation, the apartment was dark. Not a single light on, and the air conditioner was turned off, despite Minas Ithil being in the midst of an autumn heatwave. A breeze whipped through the rooms, though, which meant a terrace door was open somewhere. A frisson of unease coursed through him. Either Gimli had been irresponsible about locking up or he was still here. To his chagrin, Legolas almost hoped it was the former.

He walked through the living room and dining room, and then through the bedroom, where he finally found an open door. Gimli was sitting out on the terrace, his back against the stone railing. He had his pipe in one hand, a lighter in the other, and by his sloppy posture, Legolas could tell he’d been smoking for a while. And he wasn’t alone.

“Has it gotten any better?” Éomer asked.

“Would I be here with you if it were?” Gimli retorted. He shook his head and took another hit. His inhalation was long and deep, and after exhaling, he spoke again. “He should’ve been home by now.”

“I am.” Legolas walked out onto the terrace, dropping his messenger bag by the door. Gimli looked up at him, blinking. The chaise creaked as Éomer tried to sit up straighter. “I’m sorry I’m so late.” And he was. It wasn’t like their usual bickering, where they said they were sorry and wouldn’t do it again, but knew they wouldn’t do anything to change. He didn’t like the forlorn expression on Gimli’s face. He helped pull him to his feet.

“Long day?” Gimli asked, his voice raspy with smoke and some unarticulated feeling.

“The longest.” He took the pipe out of Gimli's hands and put it to his own mouth. Gimli's lips curved into a faint smile as he lit the weed in the bowl. He inhaled, less accustomed to the burning of his throat and lungs than Gimli or Éomer were, but not unfamiliar. Legolas wasn’t much of a smoker; he hated cigarettes, but it wasn’t completely unheard of for him to share a toke with Gimli. He just preferred other methods – brownies, for example, were the best of both worlds.

He leaned back against the wall and looked up at the darkening sky. He thought he could see a star or two peeking from the blackness. Or maybe he only imagined them; a city like Minas Ithil had too much light pollution for star-gazing. “How is the project going?”

“Fine.” The lie was short and tired. A dismissal – not of Legolas or the question he asked, but of the work itself. Legolas knew that Gimli would be talking his ear off about it if his art were going well. But he didn’t have the energy to ask the questions that would lead to a better answer. Wasn't sure he'd get one anyway, if he tried.

“How long have you been home?” Clearly it had been a while. There were at least eight beer bottles by the chaise lounge Éomer was sprawled all over. He was probably high, like Gimli, and definitely drunk, judging the way his head lulled to one side.

“I gave up at the studio 'round four,” Gimli said, retrieving his pipe for another deep hit. “Came home and slept – till this asshole woke me up.”

Éomer laughed. “I was hungry,” he said, as though this explained everything. Legolas wondered if that meant they'd eaten together a lot lately. The idea bothered him a lot more than it maybe should have. He imagined them together, at a restaurant or there in the apartment, eating and talking. Laughing. He wondered what they would do after, while the wine was still warm in their bellies and dessert had made them lazy. Gimli used to lie across the couch after a good meal, his head in Legolas's lap and Legolas's hands in his hair. He imagined them Éomer's hands.

Fury flashed behind his eyes.

When Gimli handed the pipe back, he closed his eyes and held the smoke in his lungs, willing it to calm his frayed nerves. Gimli wouldn't. No matter how – tense – things got between them, Gimli was a better man than that. He opened his eyes and peered through the darkness at Éomer. He wasn't so sure he could say the same about Éomer Eadig.

He was still wearing a suit – his tie and jacket abandoned somewhere in the apartment, Legolas assumed. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, and his hair was slipping from that ponytail he always wore. Legolas noticed that his feet were bare. Exactly how comfortable was he in the apartment, that he took off his socks as well as his shoes? He cast a stormy glance back into the bedroom – was that where he'd find Éomer's discarded clothing?

He slid an arm around Gimli's shoulders, pulling him close in spite of the heat. Éomer reacted to that – his eyes narrowing just a fraction, his eyebrows shooting up. Legolas felt vaguely ashamed when he realized that Gimli was just as surprised. He looked up at him, a startled expression in those sad, dark eyes. Had it been so long, then?

“You headed to the bar?” Gimli asked him.

Legolas shook his head. “Not tonight.” He'd actually had the past few nights off, but this was the first that Gimli wasn't at the studio.

A smile flitted across Gimli's lips, and suddenly Legolas longed to kiss them. He glanced at Éomer, who watched them lazily through the darkness. Ordinarily, his presence would be enough to deter most amorous thoughts, but that night something dark stirred inside Legolas. He didn't like the way it felt out there on that terrace – like he was some kind of interloper in Gimli's and Éomer's sanctuary.

Damn him. Damn Éomer and his ponytail, damn his smug, languid drunkenness. And when Gimli kissed him, pushing unsteadily onto his toes, his hand cupping the back of Legolas's neck, Legolas relished it. He leaned his body against Gimli's, pinning his hips between his own and the low terrace wall. And when Gimli relaxed beneath him, tasting of bitter hops and the sweet smoke of his favorite blend, Legolas felt the ice of Éomer's eyes on his back.

After a moment, as their kiss moved from tentative to hungry, he forgot Éomer, forgot they weren't alone. He pressed closer, a suggestive grind of his hips having exactly the looked-for response in both of them. A hot hand pulled his shirt tail from the back of his pants and scalded the small of his back. It had been so long. A ragged sound escaped Legolas's lips. Too long.

He gripped Gimli's thigh, yanking his leg up against his own, nestling in the crux of Gimli's legs where his cargo shorts bunched between them. A soft sound came from behind him – a startled, heated intake of breath – and Legolas's eyes flew open.

Éomer.

He looked at Gimli, who either hadn't noticed or didn't care. As Gimli's lips moved from his mouth to his jaw and then his throat, Legolas arched back. In a small part of his mind that still claimed coherency, he wondered if Gimli wasn't turned on by Éomer's presence, at the rare opportunity for exhibition. Legolas took the chance to glance over his shoulder to where their voyeur lay on the chaise lounge.

His eyes glittered in the dim light, fixed upon them like a predatory creature.

_Mine._ Legolas nipped Gimli's ear, turning him around just enough that he could keep eye contact with Éomer _I know you want this._ He slid his hands beneath Gimli's t-shirt, his fingers dipping into the waistband of his shorts. _But this one is mine._

Éomer's hands gripped the arm-rests of the chaise, his eyes wide in shock. The longing that Legolas had suspected for years was plain as day in his face, in the hardness that changed the contours of his lap. His body was tense, still as stone. He was clearly fighting for control, but of which emotion, Legolas wasn't sure. Still, he silently dared the man to make a move, baring his teeth in a taunting smile.

Meanwhile, the slow roll of Gimli's hips was making him crazy. A strong, calloused hand gripped his chin, pulling his gaze back to Gimli's eyes. They were soft with desire and intoxication. “Kiss me,” Gimli murmured. Legolas took delight in obeying, pleasure in pushing forward.

He expertly popped the button on Gimli's shorts and slid his hand between the loose fabric and his impossibly hot skin. There was no way that Éomer could see what Legolas was doing, but the near-silent _hiss_ of Gimli's zipper made him jump nonetheless.

An empty beer bottle clattered against the tile. Éomer was on his feet, his chest moving with deep breaths, his hands limp at his sides.

“Someone looks jealous,” Legolas purred into Gimli's ear. His hand curled around Gimli as he spoke, and Gimli gasped, his hips reflexively bucking into his palm. “What do you think? Should we ask him to join us?”

For a heartbeat the world went still. Éomer froze, seeming to forget even to breathe. Legolas waited, already knowing Gimli's answer, but as the moment stretched out, an alternate scenario flashed through his mind: Éomer's lips on his skin, his large hands leaving fingerprint bruises on Legolas's thighs. He imagined Gimli kissing Éomer's wide mouth, Éomer's tongue along Gimli's earlobe.

No.

With the notion that Gimli might say yes, anger and arousal washed over him in equal measure. He looked down, his breathing suddenly coming hard.

“No,” Gimli growled. “Fuck. Shut up, Legolas.” He glanced up at Éomer and for an instant their eyes met. What – if anything – passed between them in that second of silence, Legolas couldn't guess, but Éomer turned suddenly and disappeared into the dark bedroom.

Then Gimli pushed. Before he could even enjoy the swell of victory, Gimli had him pinned to the chaise lounge still warm with Éomer's body heat. They yanked through layers of cotton to find skin, to feel it and taste it, and Legolas realized he'd been starved for this. Starved for Gimli.

“You want this?” he rasped just before they came together. It was a habit of theirs, whenever one of them was particularly drunk or high.

Gimli's eyes darkened. “Fuck, Legolas,” he swore. “Didn't know I could want it this much.”

Legolas glanced through the dark doorway that led to the bedroom. It occurred to him that Éomer might still be in there, listening, if not watching.

He leaned up and kissed Gimli, long and hard. Let him watch. Legolas raised his hips while Gimli slid his jeans off his legs. Let him want. _Gimli is mine._


	8. Chapter 8

FALL: Late October

The apartment door slammed behind Gimli as he briskly crossed the foyer.

“What's up?” Legolas asked from the living room; he wasn't at work that day, but still had his laptop out. Probably looking at finance reports for the Parks Council, or something equally mundane.

Gimli glanced at the side table, which was completely spotless. Instead of the usual stack of papers and junk mail, it held only the lamp and a pair of crystal seagulls he could swear he'd never seen before. He moved to the desk, which was equally tidy. He yanked open a couple of drawers. No luck. “Have you seen my stuff?”

“What stuff?” Legolas asked, sprawled on the couch and showing no sign of getting up to help Gimli look. “You'll need to be more specific.”

“Papers. Sketches. Phone numbers. My stuff.” Without waiting for an answer, he made his way to their bedroom. He needed to find the phone number of the guy who'd agreed to help with the metal frame for the chandeliers. The guy had said he'd be in his shop until five that night, which gave Gimli about ten minutes to set up forge time, or else he had to wait until next week. But Gimli needed to be in the metal shop, working by Tuesday at the latest, or he'd fall even further behind. He had only six months left.

The bedroom was immaculate – magazine-spread neat. The bed was made, the pillows fluffed. The clothes he'd left on the floor that morning were just gone, as was the overflowing laundry hamper. The area rug had been vacuumed, precise lines showing that it hadn't even been walked on. Gimli glanced into the gleaming bathroom. He could still smell the almost minty scent of the eco-friendly cleaners.

Legolas hated cleaning bathrooms.

He spun on his heel and charged back into the living room. “You rehired the maid!”

“The place was a sty,” Legolas responded coolly, not even glancing up from his computer.

“Yeah, and your maid likely threw away something I fucking need!”

Legolas's cool expression was suddenly uneasy. “It's not like anyone could tell the difference,” he said, frowning. “The apartment was a fire trap, you had so much loose paper all over the place. How was I to know that anything was important?”

So Legolas had given her the go-ahead. Gimli nodded his head, pressing his lips together. That was good to know. “I'd think you would assume everything was important, in that case,” he said tightly.

Setting the laptop onto the floor, Legolas sat up. “What would be the point of a cleaning service,” he asked coldly, “if all they do is shuffle your clutter around? I figured you'd keep the important stuff with you – most of the crap around here was old enough to have dust on it.” He leveled a hard look at Gimli. A challenge.

Bring it. They'd been better lately, but not good. More like tiptoeing, trying to be extra nice. Gimli was almost relieved to take the gloves off. “Used to be that you could tell the difference between crap and art,” he growled.

“Oh, so you've replaced your plastic bottles with scraps of paper with cryptic-but-crucial information on them?” Legolas snapped. “Here's a tip: if it looks like trash and it's scattered around my apartment, there's a good chance it'll be thrown out.”

The blood in Gimli's veins turned to ice. “I see,” he replied stonily. “My stuff isn't welcome in _your_ apartment.”

“Oh please!” Legolas snapped back. “You know I didn't mean it that way.”

“No, I don't know that,” Gimli replied, equally harsh. “But now I know that my designs look like garbage to you. I know that if my clothes are on the floor – beside the half of the bed you've so kindly bestowed on me – you'll hire some stranger to pick them up. And let's not forget that if I have the audacity to clear out some room in my studio by bringing a few canvases here, you'll glare at me every fucking time you walk past the guest room.”

“A few canvases?” Legolas asked, incredulous. He stood up and squared off against Gimli. “A few canvases are what I have on my walls. You dropped a metric ton of art supplies into that room without even clearing it with me.”

“I thought this place was supposed to be my home, too!” Gimli roared, feeling – finally – that he was letting go of months of pent up frustration. “You told me to use whatever space I needed. I didn't realize that meant asking you if it's okay to make a little room for the most important project of my life!”

“All you had to do was let me know first,” Legolas insisted. “Instead, I come home one day to find the place brimming with art supplies. I could've helped you find a space for everything.”

“I found a space!” Gimli shouted, flinging an arm out to gesture toward the guest room. “There's an entire room over there that no one ever uses! Or were you planning to empty out a drawer for me? So I could put all my things into one tidy place and this apartment would still look and feel like it's completely yours?”

“Stop being dramatic,” Legolas snapped, glaring. “If this place seems more mine than yours, it's probably because you only use it for sleeping and storing your things. It's not like you're ever here long enough to do more than shower and dart out the door. You don't even have a job, and yet you spend less time here than I do!”

“I have a job!” Gimli cried. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to tear his beard out. “It's. Called. A. Commission. How many times do I have to fucking tell you that it's a damned job? All that time I spend at the studio I'm working my ass off on something that could very well be my big break, and you're acting like I'm laying around, playing video games!”

Something crackled behind Legolas's eyes. Gimli had never talked to him like that before – he'd never been mad enough. Clearly, Legolas didn't like it. “You spend all that time at the studio completely avoiding me,” he said quietly. Furiously.

“It's a studio, not the Batcave,” Gimli countered flippantly. “It's not in some top-secret location. How about dropping by occasionally? Do you even give a flying fuck about how it's going?”

“You don't need my approval,” Legolas replied coldly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I suppose that's good, since I obviously don't have it,” Gimli sneered back. “Don't know what happened – you used to support my work.”

“Don't you have all the support you need from Éomer?” Legolas's eyes had narrowed. He looked downright mean.

Was he completely insane? “Éomer's not my fucking boyfriend.”

Legolas barked out a bitter laugh. “Through no lack of effort on his part, I'm sure.”

“That's funny,” Gimli replied sarcastically. “Last I recall, _he_ wasn't the one inviting us into his bed.” That night had been grating on him. He had no idea what Legolas had been up to, trying to bait Éomer like that, but he was glad it hadn't worked. The only thing worse that being on the outs with Legolas would be being the outs with Legolas while things were weird with Éomer.

Legolas rolled his eyes. “I only said that because it was so clear he wanted to be with you.”

For a moment Gimli could only gape at him incredulously. Was this really Legolas Thranduilion? Heat rolled over him in waves, but the core of his body felt cold. “First of all, he does _not_ think of me like that. And secondly, who the fuck ever gave you the right, even if he did? Was it some kind of test? Some kind of way to see if I'd screw him under the pretense of a threesome? How the fuck were you planning for that to end, Legolas?”

“I wasn't planning a damn thing!” Legolas cried. “I was just tired and pissed off and sick to death of my boyfriend choosing to spend more time with Éomer Eadig than with me!”

For a moment there was no sound in the room but their breathing and the blood rushing in Gimli's ears. Then he turned on his heel and stalked toward the bedroom. “And you wonder why I'd choose that,” he muttered, shaking his head. He slammed the door so hard that something in the living room shattered. Good. Something for the maid to do.

^^

Legolas cursed, letting the dust pan clatter onto the floor. A bead of dark blood formed, then another and another, until the long slice across the pad of his thumb was a red gash. He popped the thumb into his mouth, sucking away the blood. Unable to finish sweeping up with one hand, he abandoned the long shards of glass that used to be a vase and headed into the bathroom to find a bandage.

But even after the bleeding had been staunched, Legolas lingered in the bathroom. It wasn't the one they usually used, and it was a relief to be away from anything personal. Anything he could associate with Gimli.

The whole fight was ridiculous. He'd been trying to enjoy the day – a rare day off when he had no work at the office or the garden or the bar. When he got up that morning, he'd been hoping to suggest that they finally take the time to go to Mordor Adventureland and ride Barad-dûr, but Gimli was already gone – a cereal bowl left in the sink the only indication he'd been there at all. He'd tried his phone, but it went straight to voicemail. Legolas didn't know if he was ignoring his call or if he'd just forgotten to charge it.

So he was already irritated when the cleaning service showed up. And to be fair, he'd wanted to warn Gimli in advance that they were coming, but he hadn't seen him for more than a few minutes at a time that whole week. Sure, it had been petty of him to let the maid throw out all the sketches and notes he had around the apartment, but there was so much of it. Everywhere!

Back in the living room, Legolas's laptop lay abandoned on the coffee table, his game still chiming cheerfully in the silence. He slammed it closed, frustrated, and continued on his path toward the terrace.

Outside, he could hear the murmur of Gimli's voice beyond the closed glass door that led to their bedroom – he was on the phone. For a moment Legolas was relieved; it seemed he'd managed to track down whoever it was he'd been so anxious to call. But then he realized that Gimli might just be calling someone to vent about their fight.

Someone like Éomer.

A pang of jealousy – he was willing to call it by its true name – wrenched through him. He'd never been jealous of Éomer before. Well, not in this paranoid, all-consuming way.. He wondered what had changed, afraid that there were subtle clues he was subconsciously picking up on. Clues that Gimli was cheating? Of course not. But maybe there was a willingness that hadn't been there before? He'd definitely distanced himself from Legolas. The idea that he'd simultaneously gotten closer to Éomer made his stomach hurt.

He'd hoped things were getting better. Sure, Gimli still wasn't home much, but when he was, Éomer wasn't with him so often anymore. And they were touching again – not sex, not since that night on the terrace – but just two days ago, Gimli had combed his fingers through Legolas's hair, dropping a kiss on his forehead before heading out to the studio. That was an improvement.

But clearly, nothing had been fixed.

“I got a hold of the guy at the metal shop,” Gimli said, stepping out onto the terrace. He didn't meet Legolas's eyes, and his words were slow. Reluctant. “Sorry for yelling.”

“ _Sorry for yelling_ ,” Legolas repeated, bitterness washing over him. “But you meant what you said.”

The apologetic, almost humble Gimli disappeared. “Hell, Legs,” he began, his expression dark.

But Legolas was sick of losing arguments for being too careful. He was sick of tiptoeing around his own home. “No,” he said firmly. “You don't get to just walk in here and yell and start something because you're mad at me, but then refuse to hear why I'm mad at you!” He'd never been the type to lash out, but he'd finally reached his breaking point.

“You're pissed off because I spend time with my best friend. Got it.” Gimli threw up his arms in exasperation. “Got anything new?”

“I'm mad because you obviously don't want to be here!” Legolas insisted. He tried to keep his voice steady, but he could feel it crack as he continued. “I'm mad because you stood me up at the theater. And because you've thrown yourself so completely into your art that you don't even see me. I've found something that I love to do. Something I'm good at. And have you ever had even one encouraging thing to say about it? No. You haven't even noticed!” Legolas took a deep breath. It felt good to say it all out loud.

Gimli's face had gone from stormy to frustrated, and now he listened with his arms crossed over his chest, an impatient look on his face. “Is that all?” he growled.

Not even close. “I'm frustrated that you just up and quit your job without even discussing it with me. And I hate that you run away every single time things get hard, and that you've done that since our very first argument!”

Gimli started, his hands dropping to his sides. “And you think that your way of handling everything – with your superior attitude and cold shoulder – is so much better?” he demanded. “I might've walked out on you on prom night five fucking years ago, but don't forget that I'm also the one who walked back to you the next day to set things right. If I hadn't, you'd probably still be holding that grudge today.”

Outrage crashed over Legolas. “I don't hold grudges!” he cried.

“You just rattled off a whole list of them you have against me!”

Legolas felt like he'd been shoved into a corner. “So you're the only one allowed to be upset? Because you just tore into me with all the reasons you're mad at me!” It suddenly felt like he was on the defensive again, and he hated it.

“Oh, that was the tip of the iceberg,” Gimli snarled. “If you're going to be mad about the theater, why don't you consider the fact that you bought the tickets before even asking me if I wanted to go? I didn't exactly relish the thought of dressing up – in a suit _you picked out for me_ , no less – and then going out to whatever fancy restaurant that your dad thought was cool that week.”

“Arwen picked the restaurant.” Legolas informed him icily. “And if you hate the suit so much, you should've damn well said so before you let me buy it!”

“I did!” Gimli looked around wildly and for a moment Legolas thought he was searching for something to break. “But you said I needed it or else your dad would feel awkward.”

“I said you needed something dressy or _you_ would feel awkward! It didn't have to be that suit!”

Gimli shoved his hands into his hair and pulled. “But it had to be a fucking suit!” he said. “Ever since I moved in with you, all you've done is try to change me. Fancy clothes, fancy food. Theater tickets. That shit's not me!”

“Made clear by the fact that you backed out ten minutes before curtain,” Legolas hissed. “If it hadn't been for the fact that you were also ditching Arwen and Aragorn, I guess it really wouldn't have surprised me in the least.”

“I had a breakthrough!” Gimli shouted. “Which, six months ago, probably would've led to you coming over after the show, wanting to see what progress I'd made!”

“Six months ago I thought you were driven. I thought you were some kind of genius,” Legolas said coldly. “But I was an idiot to think that my own lack of direction was normal, and that you were amazing for being so focused. It turns out you're just like every other starving artist out there – the next thing I knew, you were quitting your job and hanging around the house, doodling on every slip of paper you got your hands onto.”

“Do you want to know why I quit?” Gimli asked, his voice unnervingly calm. “It was because I knew I'd be putting crazy hours into this piece, and I wanted to make sure there was sill time left over to spend with you.”

Legolas blinked. Gimli's voice was so even, his eyes so hard, it took him a moment too long to register that he'd just said something that wasn't harsh or argumentative. “What?” he said, his heart thumping painfully.

Gimli's eyes narrowed. “But then you ended up getting a second job – something that evidently interested you more than anything I could do. And even when it started paying real money, you never quit the bar. I just figured that you'd rather spend your nights flirting with a bunch of drunks than with me.”

That wasn't fair. Sure, it hadn't even occurred to Legolas that he might give up bartending, but that had nothing to do with Gimli. He liked St. Aulë's. He liked working with Aragorn and Butterbur, liked the tips. “Wait. Flirting?” he asked too late.

“I've seen how you work,” Gimli said, scowling. “Do you even know how many of your tips have phone numbers written on them?”

“Don't tell me you're jealous!” If they hadn't been in the middle of their biggest fight to date, Legolas would've laughed.

Gimli growled. “You don't want to bring up that particular topic right now,” he warned in a low voice.

“Don't I?” Legolas returned. But he didn't. Not really. He was tired of this. Tired of fighting, tired of trying to defend himself when Gimli was clearly determined to misunderstand him. He leaned against the terrace wall, defeated.

For a long moment neither spoke. Gimli sat on the chaise, heaving a sigh and leaning his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. He looked as exhausted as Legolas felt. “Damn it, Legolas,” he said softly, his words muffled. “At what point do you just decide this isn't worth it?”

Panic jolted like electricity through Legolas and all of his fury burned up with it. His stomach felt like he'd just swallowed a bowling ball. “No,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “No, that's not what's happening here.” It wasn't. It couldn't be.

Gimli looked up at him, his eyes red like he'd smoked too much pot. Like he was on the verge of crying. “Then what is?” he asked.

Legolas sat beside him on the chaise, pulled him into his arms. “Not that,” he whispered fiercely. “I love you, Gimli. It's been rough, but we'll get through it. We have to.”

Arms slipped around his waist. Gimli's face burrowed against Legolas's chest. “I'll come home more,” he said, his words barely audible.

Legolas was surprised to find himself crying, tears dripping into Gimli's hair. He kissed them away. “And I'll be here,” he promised.

They didn't speak or move for a long time, long after Legolas's panicked heartbeat steadied and slowed. Finally Gimli pulled back and wiped the remaining tears off of Legolas's face with his thumb. “Don't cry over me,” he whispered, gruff.

Legolas felt his heart skip. “I'll try.”


	9. Chapter 9

FALL: Early November

“Holy shit! If it isn't little Legolas Thranduilion!”

Legolas looked up from the lime he was slicing, mildly irritated but curious about who would call him _little_. He was expecting someone familiar – maybe a cousin or a long lost high school friend – but his eyes widened in shock when he saw that face.

Gods, that face. For months of his young life, it had been the object of his fascination and utter devotion. Those eyes, those cheekbones, they'd never failed to quicken his pulse and leave him breathless. Even now, his breath hitched. His heart lurched. But it wasn't love or attraction he felt this time.

It was loathing.

“Glorfindel,” he said, not bothering to fake even the minimal enthusiasm he gave his drunkest, most annoying patrons. He was the last person Legolas had expected to see.

“Look at you!” Glor was saying, grinning like a fool. “All grown up and looking _good._ ”

Legolas hadn't seen him since high school, since he'd driven all the way to Lothlórien University to surprise him at his dorm. But Legolas had been the one to get the real surprise, discovering Glorfindel – his supposedly-loyal and loving boyfriend – in bed with another guy.

“What'll you have?” he asked, hiding behind professionalism. He wondered if he could get Butterbur to stick around and cover the bar while he hid out in the back room until this jerk left.

“A Captain's Treasure for me and a round of beers for the rest of them. Whatever's good on tap.” Glorfindel gestured toward a table near the door, which was rapidly filling with attractive guys in sharp clothing. Still gay, Legolas realized, unaccountably surprised. When they first met, Glorfindel wasn't out yet, and claimed that Legolas was the first guy he'd ever been with. It'd seemed sweet and flattering at the time, but even before the breakup, Legolas had wondered if it hadn't been a ruse just to reel him in.

Not like Gimli. He smiled fondly at the thought of him, remembering their first awkward encounters when Gimli alternated between timid and passionate on a regular basis.

Glorfindel noticed his smile and leaned across the bar, a bit too close for comfort. “What are you up to? I was surprised when you didn't show up in Lórien after graduation. Hadn't you wanted to go to school there?”

Legolas handed him his drink and shrugged. “Didn't end up going to college,” he said. “I came to the city pretty much right after graduation.”

Glorfindel smirked. “And now you're pouring drinks for pay.”

“Indeed.” The word came out casually, despite his internal bristling. He'd been doing his job long enough that his veneer of calm came automatically. He filled glass after glass with beer, keeping his head down as he worked. He wasn't angling for a good tip this time. He'd feel more than compensated if Glorfindel just left without trying for more conversation.

Glor hooked his long fingers around the tall glasses and carried them – four at a time – to his friends at the table. When he came back for the second bunch, he slipped a handful of bills into Legolas's hand. Their fingers brushed, and for a moment, Legolas hoped that might be all there was to it, that he would go drink with his friends and leave him alone.

But no. “We should go out,” Glor said smoothly. “Get to know each other again.” When Legolas didn't answer, he continued, leaning across the bar and lowering his voice. “It's been a while, hasn't it? Is your place 'round here?”

The words Legolas wanted to hiss back wouldn't win him any points from his other patrons. So instead of telling Glorfindel to fuck off, he glared icily. "I can have you thrown out," he reminded him.

"For flirting with the bartender? That's kind of expected."

"Flirting, harassment. Whatever you prefer to call it." Legolas poured another glass of spiced rum and Goldschlager when Glorfindel pushed his empty one forward. "I think your friends are missing you."

Glor pulled out a business card and slid it across the bar. "Call me. Let's catch up sometime."

"Last call's in fifteen minutes," Legolas replied, completely ignoring the invitation and the card.

"So, you just wanna wait until you're closed?"

"Leave him alone," a gruff voice said. The speaker nudged his way to the bar. "Can't you even tell when a guy's not interested?"

Éomer. And he'd thought the night couldn't get any worse.

"This your boyfriend?" Glorfindel asked, taking in Éomer's rumpled designer suit and stubbled chin. He looked like he'd stepped out of a cologne ad. Definitely Glorfindel's type. "He could always join us, you know."

"I've been getting that a lot lately," Éomer replied, nonplussed. He pushed himself even closer to the bar, turning his back toward Glorfindel. The look he gave Legolas was piercing. "You got time to talk? Later?"

It was asked like a question, but Legolas knew he'd just wait outside for him, even if he said no. "Sure.”

“Call me!” Glorfindel directed in a low voice, shooting a last appraising glance at Éomer's broad shoulders before heading back to his friends.

Éomer scowled and Legolas was suddenly dreading the end of his shift. Éomer's bulk and glower had gotten rid of Glorfindel, at least, but at what cost? Conversations with Éomer Eadig were not high on his list of ways he'd like to spend his time after a long night working.

“We close in half an hour,” he told the blond, pouring him a beer without being asked. "Gotta clean up first, though."

Éomer nodded and took a deep drink. “I'll wait,” he said abruptly.

Closing the bar was methodical and practiced. Send the customers home, clean the bar and tables, count the till. Unfortunately, it also meant that he got it done quickly, and was able to get out in no time. And as promised, Éomer was waiting for him outside.

Legolas zipped up his jacket. Autumn was generally mild in Minas Ithil, but the nights had turned suddenly chilly. The stark contrast made him suddenly think of that other night, a couple of weeks before. It had been so warm, summer hanging on for one last hurrah. He looked sideways at Éomer, pretty sure that that night was exactly what he'd come to talk about.

"Let's chat," Éomer said, falling into step with him as he headed toward home.

Even in a huge city like Minas Ithil, three-thirty was a quiet part of the night, and Éomer's dress shoes clicked against the sidewalk. They walked half a block in silence, then another half-block while Legolas tried to be patient. "I thought you wanted to talk," he said after they crossed the first street. He was tired and wary and his voice was sharper than he intended.

Éomer nodded, accepting Legolas's sharp edges. "Be as shitty as you want to me," he said at last, his tone more matter-of-fact than his words. "But for fuck's sake, can you leave Gimli out of it?"

Legolas stopped in his tracks, and Éomer halted as well. "Is this about–"

"Of course it is! Inviting me to join you two? What are you playing at?" Éomer's voice finally betrayed his frustration. He looked away and ran a hand through his hair. "Usually you need more than one interested party to have a _ménage à trois_."

"I don't know what I was thinking that night," Legolas said defensively. "We were all completely wasted. But I'm not into you." He hadn't been _that_ high, but Éomer didn't need to know that.

"I know." His voice was soft. Resigned.

They studied each other in the light of the streetlamp, not saying anything for a long time. Then Éomer started walking again. Legolas followed suit, and for a long while, nothing more was said. His mind was whirring, trying to sort out the various implications of those two little words. “You care about Gimli,” he said at last, not looking at Éomer. “Does he know?”

Éomer shook his head. “No. No, I'd never–” His words broke and he took a ragged breath. “It's more than that,” he said slowly.

“More?” Legolas felt a fresh wave of unease.

“It's not just Gimli.”

He waited for Éomer to continue, but nothing else came. Slowly – far too slowly, it seemed – understanding came to Legolas. About Éomer's being the only interested party. “Me too?” he asked softly. Possibly too softly. There wasn't any answer, and for a long time it was only footsteps on concrete again.

"I'm not trying to change anything," Éomer said finally. "You love him, he loves you – you've always been right for each other. It's just...." He sighed. "He's never known. It's not like I've spent the last five years trying to steal him from you or something. We're friends, that's it."

_The last five years._ Had it been that long? Legolas wanted to ask, but he didn't want to know. Not really. It would be hard enough already, meeting his eyes in the daylight. More information would mean more things he had to pretend not to know for the sake of Gimli's friendship.

“I'm sorry I was such an asshole that night.”

Éomer looked up at him, meeting his eyes at last. A lopsided smile revealed a dimple on one cheek. “You're an asshole most nights,” he said, his white teeth flashing. “I always forgive you.”

A rueful chuckle escaped Legolas's lips. “Thanks.”

“But.” And Éomer's face went serious again, his jaw setting and his eyes narrowing. “I meant what I said before. You can treat me however the hell you want, but not Gimli. He’s not the problem when it comes to you and me.”

Legolas nodded mutely. Apparently satisfied, Éomer put his hands in his pockets, his gaze straight ahead once more. “He's better than both of us, you know.”

Of course he was. He knew that. He'd always known that. And when they reached Legolas's building, Éomer only nodded before turning away. Legolas's heart wrenched. “I'm trying to deserve him,” he called after him.

Éomer turned. He looked strangely vulnerable in the wan light. “I know.”

^^

Sam Gamgee was freaking out. Gimli could see it in the way he sat, uneasy on his chair, twisting around as though he'd never been in a restaurant before. He saw it in the twitchy quirk of his mouth when he tried to smile, in the bitten-off edges of his fingernails. It wasn't like he didn't have good reason for a freak out, after all – in just a few short months, he would be responsible for a whole other person.

“I figured Rose would be with you,” Legolas said, setting the trays of fast food on the table. They were at Gimli's favorite sandwich place – one of the concessions Legs had made after their huge fight the week before.

Sam shrugged. “She wasn't feeling up to the train ride,” he explained. He fidgeted with a ketchup packet, seemingly unable to decide whether or not he wanted to open it. “She's been tired a lot.”

“I’ve heard that’s pretty normal.” Gimli unwrapped his burger and took a massive bite. It tasted like beef and bacon and pickles, greasy and delicious. He wondered if the guy who'd invented hamburgers ever got rich on it – he certainly deserved to. “Ishee ghappy?”

Sam blinked and Legolas rolled his eyes. “What my very rude boyfriend means is, ‘Is she happy?’”

Gimli grinned at Legolas, then got back to chewing. It was strange, how in moments like those, it was like nothing had changed. Other times – most of the time, it seemed – it was as though everything between them had broken into a thousand pieces and someone had glued it all back together: it was all there, but nothing fit exactly right anymore. 

“She is,” Sam was saying. “She’s always glowing and singing and everything’s wonderful.” His words were positive, and his tone was upbeat, but something in his smile seemed forced. Did he mean that everything was really wonderful, or that only Rose thought so and he was trying to convince himself of the fact?

While Gimli tried to decipher his friend, Legolas got right to the point. “So she’s ready for this and you’re not,” he said, nodding. He drizzled vinegar onto his fries, followed by a generous sprinkle of salt. He'd passed on the burgers altogether, it seemed. His loss.

Sam flushed. “I’m prepared,” he said, almost defensively. “I helped put the nursery together this past weekend, and we’ve been going to classes.”

“So, you're prepared,” Gimli observed, “but are you ready?”

“That’s the same thing!”

“Not really,” Legolas said. “It's clear that you’re preparing for this baby. You’re going through all the proper and necessary steps between being childless and child-full.”

Sam looked confused. “Exactly,” he said, clearly not sure if Legolas was defending him or not.

“But being ready is something different,” Gimli continued when Legolas paused to pop a fry into his mouth. “Being ready is knowing in your gut that now’s the right time to take that leap.” And it wasn't just the leap into parenthood that took readiness, he realized. There was that leap to moving in together. To sharing a life. To know that even if trouble arose, they could get through it together.

“But, how do you know if you’re ready?” Sam asked, his voice timid and his expression bewildered.

“Like he said,” Legolas said casually, taking a gulp of his soda. “It’s a gut instinct. You just know. In your stomach, in your heart.” His eyes met Gimli's in some kind of silent communication, but Gimli looked away; it just wasn't comfortable anymore.

He focused on Sam instead. “You’ve been ready for ages,” Gimli assured him. “You’ve been parenting all of us for the last five years. Think of that as practice. Now you can use your skills on someone who really needs them.”

Legolas laughed, but Sam didn’t. His uneasiness had fallen away, but not because he was suddenly comfortable in his role as father-to-be. Gimli had known him long enough to recognize that he had shifted gears, found a new topic to focus his attention upon, one that didn't worry him nearly so much. His shrewd gaze took in them both, the moment lasting long enough that Legolas fell silent and Gimli squirmed. “Are you sure about that?” Sam said at last. “That you don't need someone looking after you, I mean?”

“I’ve always taken care of myself,” Gimli said defensively. “We were both over eighteen when we met you, after all.” He felt bristly and nervous, as though Sam's scrutiny might be all it took to break the uneasy truce he'd forged with Legolas.

“There’s a difference between a legal adult and someone who still needs looked out for,” Sam said. He dragged a fry through ketchup lazily, dabbing it against the side of the plastic cup as if he were planning to paint with it rather than eat it. His face was scrunched up in concern, like he was trying to find the right words. “Relationships take work, you know.”

“What?” Now it was Legolas's turn to look bewildered. He clearly had no idea how the conversation had turned from the new baby to their relationship. Gimli wasn't sure himself, but it was clear that Sam Gamgee was trickier than he seemed. Also, that Frodo gossiped just as much as Legolas and Aragorn.

“Relationships,” Sam repeated. “Like yours and Gimli's. It's not just about love and being together. You have to work at it.”

“Of course,” Legolas said casually. But it was fake casual. He was clearly going to try to steer the conversation elsewhere. For once, Gimli was eager to let him. They weren't ready for sage advice from the married man just yet.

“I’m serious,” Sam insisted, looking up at Legolas, his expression intense. “Rose and I learned that a marriage is made up of communication and empathy and a steadfast determination to never go to bed angry.”

Zero out of three, Gimli thought bitterly to himself. _At least we're not married_. The thought came with a pang as he realized that, at this rate, they never would be.

“And it takes love,” Legolas added. His eyes were shuttered, but Gimli thought he heard a note of panic behind his voice.

“Well, yeah,” Sam agreed. “I don't figure that's a problem with you two, though.”

Which meant he knew the other three were. Gimli sighed. “Yeah, it takes work,” he said, hoping that agreeing would end the conversation. It wasn't like he wasn't willing to work. The problem was seeing what all that work would lead to, in the end. He didn't want to drown trying to save a ship that was already sunk.

Sam nibbled at his food. He was still a bit jumpy, but it seemed like talking about them instead of his impending offspring was calming him down. “You know, when Rosie and I got married, I figured it would all get easier.”

“Easier than what?” Legolas looked incredulous, and Gimli knew what he was thinking. They'd lived a charmed life from that first day when he asked her out on the school steps.

Sam's eyes looked wistful. “It was hard for me at first, figuring out what to do and what to say. I kind of thought that, once she was my wife, I'd stop being in awe of her all the time. I thought we'd just magically become each other's family and I could finally relax. But it didn't work out that way. It was actually harder. There was no rest from it.” He laughed lightly. “After that first week, I was so exhausted from trying to be at my best every moment that I think I crashed and slept twenty hours straight.”

Gimli glanced at Legolas and found him looking back. Had they ever tried so hard to please one another? It had been easy at the start – completely effortless, it seemed now. And then, their year apart had made them hungry for each other's company, so nothing bothered them as long as they could be together. After Gimli moved to Minas Ithil, they each had their own places – they could retreat to separate spaces, recharge so they didn't have to be _on_ all the time. It was only after they moved in together that things changed.

Now it felt like just seeing him – seeing Legolas trying so hard to pretend that everything could go back to the way it was – was breaking him into pieces.

“It's not so bad,” Legolas protested. “Gim and I have had disagreements, but we've worked it out now. He looked to Gimli for backup, but his eyes quickly flicked back to Sam. Gimli wondered what he'd found there instead. “I don't know what you've heard, but there's no need to worry about us.”

Sam looked serious. “You say so, but Frodo's worried anyway. I thought he was crazy, but now that I've seen you guys, I'm worried, too.”

Just because Gimli already knew they were in trouble, it didn't make hearing it any easier. He felt like he he was stuck in a river past his knees and the water was rising. “We're handling it,” he growled. He didn't mean to be short with Sam, but something like panic was starting to rise within him, and he wasn't ready to say the words that he knew would slip out of his mouth if he was cornered.

“It's done! We're fine!” Legolas said at the same time, laughing. His laugh was obviously forced, but the gleeful expression on his face didn't waver. “Really, Sam, would I lie to you? Gimli and I had a long talk the other night. We'd been taking each other for granted, but it's been worked out. Right, Gim?” His eyes were hopeful, maybe a touch desperate.

Gimli held his gaze for the span of a few breaths, wondering how he had come to this moment. He'd never lied to Legolas before. He'd always thought he never would.

He smiled. “Right,” he said, his own expression softening as Legolas's smile became genuine. “We're good now.”

^^

It was almost too chilly for a trip to the amusement park, but Legolas didn't care. They had jackets, and Gimli had a stocking cap tucked into his back pocket, just in case it got cold after dusk. His hand was warm in Legolas's, their fingers entwined as Legolas led him through the nearly-empty midway. The park would be open for a few more weekends, but already people had forgotten it, preoccupied with school or football or getting ready for all the harvest-time holidays. The early sunset meant that the midway would be flickering to light at any moment. Legolas liked it best like that, when the place was illuminated and magical and almost entirely their own.

“Looks like they're already selling cider and roasted chestnuts,” Gimli observed. He paused near a snack cart to inhale the delicious scents. His eyes closed, and for a moment he looked absolutely content.

It had been a long time since he'd seen Gimli like that. He took it as proof that they were finally getting back on track. “Want some?” Legolas asked, already steering them toward the vendor. Moments later Gimli held a bag of chestnuts and they both had cups of hot spiced cider. They found a bench and Legolas watched fondly as Gimli peeled and ate the steaming nuts.

“Have we ever been here this late in the season?” he asked. Across the way, a little boy was kicking dried leaves into a little pile as his mother talked on her cell phone. Legolas took a sip of his drink – the sweet taste of apples with cinnamon and cloves made him smile.

Gimli nodded. “Not for Barad-dûr,” he said. “But we brought Merry and Pippin here the first year I lived in the city.”

Legolas remembered that visit. Merry and Pippin had still been in high school and hadn't wanted to go back after the weekend was up. Legolas couldn't make them go without being a hypocrite – he'd skipped a good portion of his own high school years, after all – but Gimli had been firm, watching as they boarded the train home before dusk Sunday night. It was the first time Legolas had thought that Gimli would make a good father one day.

“I don't remember the cider tasting this good,” he said, trying to stay casual. It wouldn't do any good for Gimli to know what he was thinking about; they were there to have a good time, not to rehash old discussions.

Gimli tried a sip of his own. “Yeah, it's pretty good.” He peeled another chestnut and offered it to Legolas. Legolas wanted to let Gimli toss it into his mouth – a move they'd mastered over the years – but something about the way Gimli held out the nut made him reconsider. Maybe the mood wasn't quite right for party tricks.

Legolas chewed and leaned against Gimli. He loved Mordor Adventureland. He and Gimli used to come several times each summer, but the older they got, the busier their lives seemed to get. Last year they'd come only twice, and now it was well into autumn and they still hadn't taken their annual ride on Barad-dûr. He promised himself that they'd come earlier next year – he would plan it as an anniversary surprise next spring, maybe. It had been a rough year so far, but the fact that they were there at last, sharing food and warmth in the shadow of the huge roller coaster, had to mean something.

“Love you,” Legolas murmured as he took another drink of cider. Gimli didn't answer, but he nudged Legolas's knee with his own.

“Wanna look around, or do you want to ride Barad-dûr first?” Gimli asked when the chestnuts were gone.

"We should ride," Legolas said. "And then maybe go to the Guessing Game of Udûn and have them take a stab at our weight or age?"

"Sure," Gimli agreed with a faint smile. "Though I'm surprised you didn't immediately make a run for oliphaunt ears."

"Hey! Just because I love desserts doesn't mean that's _all_ I want," Legolas teased.

Standing, he pulled Gimli to his feet as well and tugged him along the path toward the Barad-dûr line entrance. Blood red footprints were painted onto the blacktop, helping the park guests keep on track on those days when the queue flowed halfway down the midway and took three hours to get through. Today it would probably be no more than twenty minutes. Even after six years, it was still the park's principle attraction. Legolas, who'd ridden a lot of roller coasters in his time, figured it was destined to be a classic.

There was a bounce in his step, a thrill that started deep inside and couldn't be contained. It was the about-to-ride-an-awesome-roller-coaster feeling, and Legolas loved it. He searched Gimli's face for any sign of the same jolt of adrenaline and anticipation, but his boyfriend's expression was shuttered, like he was far away, closed for the season.

“Do you want to go out for dinner on Saturday?" he asked, unnerved by Gimli's quiet. Gimli wasn't ever the chattiest of people, but today he seemed to be walking that fine line between calm and sullen. "Or do you have plans with Éomer?"

It was the first time his name had been outright spoken since the fight. Sure, Gimli had hung out with him on occasion – usually when Legolas was at St. Aulë's – but they'd seemed to have made a silent agreement not to mention him by name. It was ridiculous – part of being back to normal was being normal about Éomer, too.

Gimli shoved his hands in his pockets and joined the back of the line for the ride. "Are we starting this again?" he asked in a low voice, his face suddenly darkening. "I wasn't really expecting another fight today."

"No!" Legolas insisted. "I just thought–"

"What? That I'm not at all trustworthy? That we're having some kind of secret tryst?" Gimli said it in an exaggerated manner, but Legolas couldn't help feel that he was doing it to mask the fact that he believed Legolas doubted him that much.

"No!" Legolas insisted. Of course he trusted Gimli. He'd always trusted him completely, almost. “I was just asking if you were busy on Saturday.”

The tension in Gimli's face started to relax. His limbs loosened. He blinked, an apologetic look softening his mouth.

"But that doesn't mean that he's not into you," Legolas added, and immediately cursed his stupid, impulsive mouth. 

"Damn it!" Gimli pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "We're here because things are supposed to be good. This roller coaster is our fucking thing, but we can't even do it right."

A thread of panic wound its way from Legolas's stomach to his throat. Things weren't supposed to be good; they _were_ good. "It's okay," he said, wrapping his arms around Gimli from behind. "We're here. We're together. It's all good."

Gimli said nothing, simply putting one hand on the arm crossing his chest. For a long moment Legolas was aware of his breathing, hard and uneven, until it finally smoothed out. By then it was time to move a few steps forward in the line. They broke apart and simply held hands. It felt good. Normal.

When they reached the point-of-no-return, when the line's path narrowed into corrals and a person couldn't exit without drawing a whole lot of attention to himself, Legolas grinned. "Last chance to chicken out," he teased, nodding toward the path that went back to the midway. Pointing it out was a longstanding joke between them after their first ride together.

Legolas couldn't help but feel wistful, remembering that first summer together.

_I can't let just anyone hear me scream like that_ , Gimli had said, mortified as they disembarked. _Looks like I'll have to stay with you forever._

And Legolas, young and giddy with love and roller coasters, had simply taken his hand. _Okay._

It had sounded like a casual comment, but they'd both treated it like a vow. It was why they were there, why they'd kept coming back to ride the behemoth of a coaster again and again. Legolas reached for Gimli's hand and twined his fingers through it. He knew that Gimli was remembering the same moment, knew that he was feeling the same wave of love and nostalgia.

But Gimli let go.

Legolas's hand dropped between them as Gimli reached up to twist his fingers nervously through his own hair. He sighed, ragged and pained but then his face went stoic. He looked somewhere past Legolas's shoulder. “I'm moving out.”


	10. Chapter 10

WINTER: Early December

“Éomer came by to get all of Gimli’s stuff yesterday.” Legolas was sprawled over Aragorn's ratty old couch. He stared at the old water stains on the ceiling and shuddered. “You don't suppose he’s living with him now, do you?”

Aragorn barely looked up from the stacks of paperwork that covered his coffee table. “He needs a place to sleep, you know. He can't live at the studio. There's no shower there.”

Or kitchen. Or anything to sleep on other than that worn out loveseat with its seams torn and stuffing spilling out that he'd found next to a dumpster last year. Of course it made sense, but that didn't mean that Legolas had to like it. “He could've asked you,” he complained. He didn't like the idea of Gimli running to Éomer. It was like a punch in the face, like he'd been right all along in spite of Gimli's constant high-horse protesting. Usually, he enjoyed being right. This time it only pissed him off more. “Seriously, why did it have to be Éomer?”

This time Aragorn leveled his gaze at him, putting down his pen. The look was serious, and Legolas realized that he was about to get one of his no-bullshit responses. They usually weren't pleasant, but what was, these days? “Legolas, Éomer and Gimli have been good friends for years. I'm not saying that all that stuff about Éomer being attracted to Gimli isn't valid, but nothing happened between them, so you've got to let that shit go.” He took a deep breath. “And frankly,” he said, his voice a bit softer, “even if they are involved now, I don't think it's your business anymore.”

Tendrils of frosty rage snaked through Legolas. He didn't want to think of that particular _even if_. It was hard to wrap his head around the idea that anything to do with Gimli wasn't his business anymore. Gimli had been the center of his world for way too long for that. “Five-and-a-half years,” he protested, his voice shaking. “How the hell could he throw that away?”

There wasn't an answer for it, and Aragorn didn't try to give him one. He didn't go back to his paperwork, either. “It sucks,” he said at last. “I'll be honest – you two weren't doing so well, but I expected things to go differently. Those last few weeks you'd been working hard, and I thought Gimli could see that.”

“But I was the only one,” Legolas said, bitterly. “I took time off from the bar, went to all his crappy diners, planned the whole trip to Adventureland, but he was surly and detached the whole damn time. I thought that if I could stay cheerful enough–”

“I think his mind was already made up.” Aragorn's voice was low, and he looked uncertain – not about what he was saying, Legolas realized, but about whether or not he should say it.

“What do you mean?”

“I suspect that nothing you did could have changed his mind about leaving,” Aragorn said carefully. “I think he was just getting up his nerve.”

“And he decided that Adventureland was the place for it?” Legolas laughed, angry and slightly hysterical, but not at all amused. “In the damned line for Barad-dûr? Holy fuck, Aragorn! I would've thought that Gimli would be more sensitive!”

But there wasn't much point going over all the things he hadn't expected of Gimli. He could spend weeks – had already spent nearly two of them – going over every moment of the past few months, trying to figure out what he'd missed. Trying to figure out when Gimli had given up on them. It hadn't done any good. Not only was Gimli's mind a mystery to him, but what could he change, even if was able to pinpoint the exact moment? Nothing.

“Talk to him,” Aragorn suggested. He stood and wandered to the kitchen. Rather, the kitchen-ish part of his apartment. There was a counter with a sink. A cabinet. A small fridge and a hot plate. “Find out his reasons.”

“I know his reasons.” There had been weeks of reasons – the suit, the job, the lack of consideration. Éomer, or at least the fights over him. Legolas already knew all of the reasons that Gimli was willing to say out loud, and even some that he wasn't. Like his fear of being hurt, his unwillingness to compromise, his anger at being anything but the very center of Legolas's attention at any given moment.

If Gimli has already made his mind up, did it mean that he'd already moved on? Had he already fallen out of love?

He couldn't help but think of the advice Gimli had given Faramir years before, after one of his many breakups with Éowyn: _The best way to over someone is to get under someone else_. At the time, it had seemed clever and humorous. Now it felt like a sucker punch.

He pulled out his phone and began typing furiously. _Are you seeing Éomer now?_ But he backspaced just as quickly. What good would it do? If he was with Éomer now, a text from Legolas wouldn't change anything. If he wasn't, then Gimli would have yet another opportunity to get pissed off over his jealousy. And if he didn't answer? That would be the worst of all. It would mean that Legolas's question didn't matter either way. He didn't know how soon he'd recover from a blow like that.

“You need to do something to get your mind off of things,” Aragorn said over his shoulder as he poured a box of macaroni into a pot of water. “If you sit around thinking about this, you're gonna make yourself even more miserable. Go do something. Come running with me.”

Legolas shuddered. The idea of running around the park was miserable enough, but now he knew that his mind would chant _he doesn't love you, he doesn't love you_ with the pounding of each footfall. It didn't sound like a good way to get his mind off of things. “Ugh,” Legolas cried, flopping back down against the sofa's cushioned back. “Kill me first.”

“Or,” Aragorn began, turning toward Legolas and leaning against the counter, his arms crossed. The wooden spoon in his hand dripped macaroni water onto the floor, but he didn't seem to care. “You can decide to give Gim the space he needs, and when you're both ready, you can talk to each other like adults. Maybe he just needs a little time to sort out his feelings. Who knows? After a bit of time apart, he might be eager to get back together.”

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut. He'd been dumped. Hideously, unfairly dumped. It felt bad to be rejected by anyone, but to be rejected by Gimli – that was a whole other level of awful. Years before, when he'd broken up with Glorfindel, he'd made a promise to himself that he'd never let himself go back to someone who treated him like shit. No matter how much they claimed to have changed, he couldn't see trusting anyone again. Not after they'd broken his heart. “I don't know that I want to get back together,” he grumbled to Aragorn.

His friend narrowed his eyes. “Then what are you going on about?” he asked. “If you don't want him, fine. Find someone else or do your own thing.”

But he _did_ want Gimli. That was the problem.

Aragorn read his silence and smirked. “See? That's why you should talk to him. In the meantime, have some mac and cheese with me.”

“He can come to me if he wants to sort things out,” Legolas replied stubbornly. “I’m done trying to keep him happy.” He watched Aragorn mixing butter and the packet of dried cheese into the pot of pasta. His stomach turned. “And I'm not hungry.”

“Suit yourself.”

Legolas flopped back down onto the couch and pulled a flattened throw pillow over his head. He was sick of thinking about Gimli. He was sick of thinking about anything at all.

^^

A knock. Gimli looked up and stubbed out his cigarette. The paintbrush in his other hand had gone hard – apparently he'd been lost in thought again. The knock sounded once more, and he put the brush into a jar of turpentine. He wasn’t used to anyone coming to his studio. The last visit – other than the superintendent, fixing the cracked skylight – was when Aragorn came to chew him out over Legolas.

And before that, Legolas was the only one who’d visited.

But the pounding on the door was insistent, so Gimli crossed the room and flicked back the two deadbolts, opening the door to find Éomer dangling a key in front of his face. “I have a date tonight, and you keep shitty hours, so I thought it would be better – in case I’m asleep, in case I’m staying over at someone else’s place – if you had your own key.”

Gimli took the key and appraised it. “Wow, does this mean we're serious?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow sardonically. Then he stepped back, inviting Éomer into the cluttered room and tossing the key onto the card table by the door.

Éomer ignored the joke. He looked around, taking in the coils of plastic and the various tools scattered around. “Damn, Gim, this place is about as fucked up as you are.” He eyed the easel where Gimli had been working, taking in the heavy smears of paint and the ashtray filled with joints and cigarette butts. “I know that artists are stereotypically messy, but I think you might be taking it too far.”

“Shut up,” Gimli said, leaning against the wall. He watched Éomer curiously; Éomer was the first to admit that he didn’t understand art, but Gimli wondered if maybe seeing it in this habitat – in relation to him – would make sense to him.

Instead Éomer sat on the floor, ignoring what the mess would do to his stylish clothing. Sighing heavily, Gimli slid down next to him.

“It’s been two weeks,” Éomer said, his voice surprisingly soft. “And we’re still in the chain smoking and angry painting phase?”

“Shut up,” Gimli repeated, knocking his knee into Éomer’s. His friend's concern made his throat tighten.

“Are you at least eating now?”

Gimli nodded. He’d grabbed a sandwich from a street vendor sometime that afternoon, but he’d barely been able to keep it down. Éomer didn’t need to know that.

“You could just, you know, talk to him,” Éomer said. “Talk it out. Take it back. He’ll listen to you.”

Gimli scoffed. “Legolas doesn’t believe in second chances. You know that. And you didn’t see his face.” He couldn’t get that image out of his mind; every time he closed his eyes, he saw Legolas’s shock and confusion dissolve into anger. It was overwhelming, and the only way to avoid it seemed to be to work himself to exhaustion or get blitzed out of his mind. Preferably both at once.

“Okay,” Éomer said, and his mouth twisted into a sad smile. “Then your only choice is to move on.”

“That’s what I’m doing.” Gimli gestured to the room around him. “I’m working on this damned commission. Coming up with new projects.” 

“Sulking. Hating yourself because you think you made a mistake. Hating yourself more because you know it wasn’t. It’s not like you’re hard to read, Gim. When was the last time you were outside when the sun was up?”

Gimli looked over at Éomer, but his friend wasn't looking at him. Instead he was staring up at the skylight, where the moon was barely visible over the city skyline. It was almost out-shined by the glow of a nearby building. His tone had been casual, but Gimli could tell by the tense line of his jaw that he was worried.

“How is it that you get me and Legolas didn’t?” Gimli asked, his voice hoarse.

Éomer shrugged. “You can’t see the forest if you’re too busy admiring the trees.”

“He said you liked me.” Before Éomer could blow it off, Gimli pressed on. “As in, really _liked_ me.”

Éomer ran a hand through his hair, mussing the smooth lines to his ponytail. “He told you that, huh?” he asked.

Gimli nodded. His chest was tight, and his hands were suddenly trembling. He was so tired of being alone. “So it's true?”

For a long moment it looked as though Éomer wouldn't answer, but then he sighed, his whole body relaxing against the brick wall. He stared straight ahead. “I used to wonder how you managed not to see it,” he said slowly. “How you managed not to see me. I felt like it was so obvious.”

How long? Gimli wanted to ask, but before he could form the words, Éomer continued. “But then we've been such good friends. Most of the time I don't even think about it.”

Most of the time. Gimli swallowed hard. “And now?” he asked in a low voice.

Éomer's breath hitched. “You're just lonely.” Even as he said it, his body leaned unconsciously closer. “I don't think we should talk about this right now.”

“Okay.” It was the smallest thing for Gimli to do, to lean across Éomer's body and to catch his lips with his own.

At first it was just that, lips clinging in spite of themselves, Éomer's body stiff, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. “Gimli, I don't think –”

“Then don't,” Gimli suggested. He kissed again, and it felt good. It felt good to be close to someone, good to know he was wanted, no matter that Éomer was trying to backpedal. And when Éomer's arms came around him, when his hands slid across his back and up to his neck, when the kiss deepened, he felt himself smile for the first time in weeks.

Éomer wasn't Legolas. It was blindingly clear from that first moment. His lips were softer, his kiss demanding where Legolas's had been languid. His hands – dear gods, his hands – were doing things, twisting his hair, tracing the line of his throat in ways that Gimli had never felt before. How strange it was to be kissing someone who wasn't Legolas.

Different was good, he reminded himself, allowing Éomer to push him back, to slide his body against his own as his friend unleashed his own hunger. He was solid in a way that was unlike Legolas. His thighs were harder, his arms and shoulders bulky with muscles. The heat from his hands seared, and Gimli shifted to give him more access as Éomer's strong fingers pulled their hips together in a slow grind.

“Damn.” Gimli's voice was ragged against Éomer's collarbone. “Didn't know how much I needed this.”

Éomer's answer was lost to him, just a mumble of vibrations and muffled vowels, focused as he was on the sensations of their bodies moving together. Éomer kissed him again, the heat building until Gimli was foggily uncertain why either of them were still wearing clothes.

There was a part of him – quiet, but insistent – that registered a certain wrongness to the whole situation. It was the same part that hadn't wanted to break up with Legolas at all, the part that had ached to call him back as he stalked away, leaving him alone in line for Barad-dûr. But Gimli had gotten good at suffocating that particular voice in his head, and he did it again, focusing instead on the muscular expanse of Éomer's abdomen, somehow exposed to his hands and mouth.

“Fuck, I can't.”

His voice came from far away, and it took a moment to register in Gimli's lust-addled mind. Firm hands on his shoulders pushed him back, and Éomer was shaking his head, not meeting his eye. “Not like this. I'm sorry.”

And then Gimli was alone against the wall, the air turning cool around him as he fought to catch his breath. Éomer was on his feet, pacing tight circles, his hands in his hair. “What do you mean?” Gimli asked. “You were into it.” He didn't like the way his voice sounded – argumentative, like it had sounded so often with Legolas.

“I can't,” Éomer began, but he switched gears right away, “I won't. I won't be your rebound. I never wanted this. Not this way.”

“What way, then?”

Éomer looked at him then, and Gimli was startled to see raw pain in his face. “For years – _years_ – I watched the two of you. You were like this fucking fairy tale, the perfect couple. I wanted that. I wanted to be that.”

Gimli didn't know what to say.

"This doesn't feel right," Éomer continued. "This isn't how it's supposed to happen."

"How is it, then?" Gimli asked. He sounded as numb as he felt.

Éomer made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and clearing his throat. "You're supposed to be happy, for one thing." He stopped and gazed evenly at Gimli. "We're friends, Gim. And I'd rather be that than some kind of rebound or consolation prize because things didn't work out with Legolas."

Not waiting for a response, he opened the door. For a moment Gimli was sure he'd leave, just like that, but at the last moment, he paused. Éomer looked at the key on the table, then back at Gimli. He looked like he was trying to smile, but failed miserably. “You've gotta figure it out for yourself,” he said softly. An instant later he was gone, leaving Gimli still frozen on the floor and the key still sitting on the table.

^^

Every Minas Tirith winter was exactly the same. Not snowy and picturesque, like some of the northern cities, but dreary and dead with flurries that never seemed to accumulate into ground cover. This year, Gimli didn't mind; the grey sky matched his mood.

He'd told his parents he was just coming home to do some laundry; they knew that he'd moved out from Legolas's apartment, but didn't know that he was sleeping on the couch in his studio or showering every other day at Aragorn's. He hadn't outright told them that he and Legolas had broken up, figuring it was easier to let them assume what they wanted. The last thing he needed was sympathy for screwing up his own life.

He didn't even know what to do with himself. In the past, all of his free time was spent hanging out with Legolas or Éomer, and now both of those options were shot. He was pretty sure that Éomer didn't want to see him. He hadn't said so, or revoked his offer of staying at his place, but it was just _weird_. Gimli hadn't been able to bring himself try to contact him since that awful night at the studio.

"That's why you don't try to fuck your friends," Gimli murmured to himself as he walked down the stairs and grabbed a hoodie off of the coat rack.

"What was that, dear?" his mother asked. She was hunched over the coffee table, finishing up a necklace she was making for an Etsy client.

"Nothing," he replied. "Just heading out for a walk."

She didn't try to stop him, or tell him to put on a heavier coat. As far as parents went, he'd been pretty lucky. His dad was severe when he was talking about his work, but he'd never tried to stifle Gimli's creativity or set up stupid rules just because he was the dad and Gimli was the kid. His mom never tried to guilt him. In return, he tried to be a decent son.

He walked around the neighborhood, hands stuffed into his pockets for warmth. Everything looked exactly the same but felt different - which probably meant that he had changed. He felt broken and bitter and angry – more so at himself than anything else. He was at the beginning of something amazing in his art, and he hadn't felt any joy in it for months. Was it because of all the stress he was going through with Legs, or was it something deeper than that?

He had started to wonder if all the crap between them was because of his art. Maybe the commission was too much for him; maybe he couldn't do serious work without alienating the people closest to him. He kicked at a frozen clod of dirt that had stuck to the sidewalk, wondering if it was time to talk to his dad about working for his damn company after all.

His path took him alongside the Minas Tirith High School, where he'd spent four years imprisoned in detention. Well, three years. He'd managed to behave through most of his senior year, because Saturday detention would've prevented him from traveling to Minas Ithil to spend time with Legolas. How was it that he'd dated Legolas for less than a month while they both attended MTHS, but somehow he couldn't even see the place without thinking of him? Was there anything in his life that hadn't been completely reshaped by Legs? The idea made him angry; everything made him angry these days.

Across the street was the Last Homely House Diner; it had been a favorite place to hang out in high school, but he knew it would be next to empty on a Thursday afternoon. He crossed the street, imagining he could temper his mood with a hot drink. After he slid into a booth and ordered coffee and toast from the tall, elegant server, he sat back against the plush vinyl seat and waited, staring out at the school and the flurries and the general dreariness of life. It felt like he'd been waiting for months now, but for what, he didn't know.

The door opened with a jingle and two more people walked in. Joggers, Gimli could tell out of the corner of his eye. But not just joggers, he realized, looking at them directly. Faramir and Éowyn.

They spotted him immediately and came to his booth, all grins and hellos and sitting down without bothering to ask. But why would they? He clearly wasn't doing anything. It was good to see them after so long, he reminded himself, swallowing any irritation at being interrupted in his wallowing.

"I didn't know you could run," he said to Faramir, and he was surprised and pleased at the pride in his voice.

"Can't yet," he replied, grinning. "I'm trying to build up to it - my physical therapist has been encouraging, though she tells me not to let Éowyn push me too hard." He squeezed her hand and she laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder. They looked so young and beautiful together, Gimli realized with a pang.

"He's doing great," she said with a proud smile. "Jogged for almost three minutes straight without any stumbling."

"Nice," Gimli said, smiling for the first time in what felt like years. He was genuinely happy to see Faramir's physical therapy paying off. The accident had done a number on him, damaging internal organs and bones alike. They'd all been horrified, and Boromir's entire world narrowed down to just the one hospital room. The fact that he'd recovered enough to run was nothing short of a miracle.

They ordered their meals – an omelet and orange juice for him and a short stack of pancakes and a milkshake for her – and made small talk until their food arrived.

"Boromir told me you guys split up," Faramir finally said, after Legolas's name had been danced around for the umpteenth time. "You doing okay?"

"Define _okay_ ," Gimli said. A sigh slid from him. Everyone asked that question, but there didn't seem to be an answer to it. No. He wasn't okay. But it was his own damn fault, wasn't it? “I was the one to break up with him,” he ended up saying, a touch defensively.

Éowyn reached over and took his hands. “That doesn't really make it easier, does it?” she said soothingly. “Especially if you still love him.”

He looked up at her, startled. Her face was open, without judgment. Even Aragorn hadn't managed that. And she had her brother's eyes. “I fucked up,” he admitted. “I thought that leaving would solve some problems, but it only made me even more miserable.” And Legolas. He'd almost asked Aragorn a dozen times how he was doing, but stopped himself every time. He didn't have the right to ask anymore.

She squeezed his fingers. The server returned with Gimli's coffee and their drinks, murmuring something cool and helpful about the status of their food orders. Éowyn ignored her milkshake, holding Gimli's hands and his gaze. “You could talk to him,” Faramir suggested, taking a gulp of his orange juice. “Maybe Legolas feels the same way you do. Maybe he's just waiting to hear from you.”

Gimli considered that for less than a moment before dismissing the suggestion. “Legolas hates me,” he said softly.

“No.” Faramir's voice was firm. He shook his head. “There's no way. You guys were crazy about each other.”

Crazy. That seemed an apt word. “Even if he still loved me, he'd hate me for leaving him,” Gimli explained ruefully. His voice held a touch of humor; it was the only way to keep it steady. “He's been dumped before, and since then, he's been completely unforgiving about it.”

And if Gimli did try to talk to him, he would have to admit to what happened with Éomer. Fuck, there was no way. Legolas would walk away without a backward glance. He pulled his hands free from Éowyn's and took a sip of his coffee. It was hot and bitter. If he couldn't forgive himself for what he'd done – screwing it all up with Legolas and then Éomer – then how could expect even a fraction of forgiveness from them?

Éowyn and Faramir meant well, but they were naïve. Sure, they'd gone through plenty of crap themselves, but he'd bet money that neither of them had fucked up as woefully as he had.

“Thanks for the pep-talk,” he said, standing. He fished a couple bucks from his pocket and dropped them next to his still-full coffee cup. “I'm glad you guys sorted your shit out, at least,” he told them, not unkindly. “You both deserve to be happy.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pulled his stocking cap back over his head and turned to go. He felt sick, and he wasn't sure if he needed to cry or break things. He definitely needed to be alone, though.

“You deserve to be happy, too!” Éowyn called after him. If she said anything else, it was masked behind the jangle of bells as he opened the door and walked out into the cold.


	11. Chapter 11

WINTER: New Year's Eve

Legolas's spacious apartment was packed. There were even people on the terrace, watching for the flurry of snow that forecasters had promised _might_ be a possibility. A man dressed as Zorro was swishing a fencing foil around the kitchen; Legolas closed his eyes, searching for the energy to care if that idiot broke his stemware. Nope. It wasn't there.

The New Year's party was probably a mistake. The fact that he was realizing that now, five minutes before the ball dropped, was a testament to his poor judgment. But it was his tradition to throw a classic, costumed New Year's bash ever year, and he didn't want Gimli's absence to change that. He didn't want Gimli's absence to change anything.

He was learning exactly how impossible that was.

“You cool over here by yourself?” Pippin was suddenly at his elbow, dressed in historical costume – some alchemist, he'd said, though Legolas couldn't remember the name he'd given. “The way you're mingling, you may as well have dressed as Jay Gatsby rather than James Bond.”

Filing the suggestion away for next year, pretty sure that he'd be feeling the same reluctance for mingling, Legolas shrugged. “Where's Marilyn?” he asked. Diamond had come as Marilyn Monroe in the pink “Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend” gown. The joke was a good one, but he wasn't much in the mood for jokes of any sort.

Pip shrugged. “Last I saw, she was mingling with the cave men.” He gestured over his shoulder where a few of Legolas's new friends from the Parks office were doing shots in faux animal skins and bare feet. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. This party's about to get out of hand, and you seem a thousand miles away.”

Legolas wondered how out of hand it could get before midnight. When the clock struck twelve there would be the obligatory shrieking and cheering and kisses, and then a few of the more determined drunks might shoot roman candles off the terrace, but it would all wind down before one. Usually Gimli was the one to see that the less intoxicated of the party-goers were headed in the right direction – on foot, of course – and to pour the less-able into taxis. He even had a system to keep track of all the keys he confiscated. Legolas didn't know exactly how he did it, but he was sure he would manage.

He must've said the right things to reassure Pippin, because he looked almost satisfied as he wandered off to find his girlfriend.

Gimli wasn't the only one missing that night. Merry hadn't come, either. No one had commented on his absence, but he was pretty sure that everyone noticed. Legolas was surprised that Merry hadn't even texted him to say he wouldn't be there. He felt like it must have something to do with Gimli, but Aragorn had chocked that up to paranoia. “Merry hasn't been in the same room as Pippin for months!” he'd insisted.

And Arwen, dressed that night as a particularly ravishing Lúthien, laughed her tinkling laugh and declared that the party would be even better without those sourpusses dragging it down. Legolas had smiled in spite of himself then; Arwen had been his fierce champion since even before the breakup. She liked both Merry and Gimli just fine, but lately anyone who made Legolas unhappy became the object of narrowed eyes and snarky jokes.

“You want me to stay, after? To help you clean up?” Boromir asked, popping into the kitchen to grab a bottle opener from the counter. He popped the cap off of his beer and took a long drink. He was dressed in his baseball uniform. Legolas thought it was an uninspired costume, but that sort of came with the territory with Boromir. Usually Faramir orchestrated their costumes to match – and based on his bare-legged Robin outfit and Éowyn's Batgirl, Legolas suspected that Boromir had simply balked at the Caped Crusader and threw on the uniform as a last resort.

“It’s okay,” Legolas replied. “I’ve got this.”

Boromir laughed. “Sure you do.” Apparently Pippin wasn't the only one who thought the party was getting wild. Legolas expected him to wander away again; there were a fair share of baseball fans at the party – even some who followed minor league teams like the Tarnost Tigers – and his attention had been in some demand. But he didn't, watching quietly as Legolas threw empty liquor bottles into the recycling. He wore an unusually thoughtful expression on his face.

“Just say whatever you’re thinking,” Legolas said at last. “Let me guess – I should go talk to Gimli if I’m feeling so wretched?”

“Honestly, I was just going to invite you to the gym to spar,” Boromir replied. “Deal with some of that tension. I always feel better after pummeling a punching bag or wearing myself out with a really good work out.”

Legolas rolled his eyes. He hadn’t set foot in a gym since high school. He’d been good at martial arts, but he didn’t have the passion for it. He hadn’t had the passion for anything, back then. “You really think a couple of rounds against you will make me feel better?”

“Yeah.” Boromir snorted, as though it were unbelievable that anyone could feel differently.

Legolas blinked. “Okay, then.” Honestly, it couldn't hurt to get out and _do_ something. Something other than pushing papers for the Parks department. He’d quit his job at St. Aulë's. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the place; he’d simply outgrown it. Getting the job with the city filled his need to do something, and maybe now he could admit that he’d been avoiding home as much as Gimli had been.

He and Boromir made their way to the living room. A crowd of people stood around the television, counting down the last minute till the new year. Maybe he wouldn’t do this next year, Legolas thought. Maybe he could just grab Aragorn and Arwen and Tauriel and head uptown where the serious parties were. Kissing a total stranger on the street would be better than standing awkwardly in his own living room while everyone else welcomed a new year by locking lips with someone special. Some, like Marilyn Monroe and her alchemist, didn't even bother to wait.

The minute wore down to that completely arbitrary moment that the whole world had agreed was weirdly significant, as Gimli would have put it. “Happy New Year!” The whole room erupted into cheers and laughter. Champagne flutes clinked and people started kissing whomever stood nearby.

“Weird without him here,” Boromir said, casting a sidelong glance at Legolas.

“Yeah,” he replied. It’s not like he hadn’t been thinking it. He'd begun the last five years with a kiss from Gimli. He'd never been the guy standing alone, a beer in his hand. “I don’t know how you can stand it,” he said to Boromir with a grimace.

Boromir was known for never having dates, never caring to get tangled up in relationships or even flings. He simply wasn’t into that sort of thing. Legolas never quite understood, but that was Boromir – he'd learned over the years that it wasn't about waiting for the right person so much as not being interested enough to look.

Boromir grinned and shrugged. “It's a lot less complicated. But on the bright side, now you can start the year O’Gondor style.”

Legolas raised his eyebrows, wondering exactly what kind of athletic punishment that would entail. But before he could ask, Boromir swooped in and dropped a sloppy kiss on his lips. It was over almost at once, leaving Legolas blinking, confused.

“See?” Boromir said, smirking. “That's a rare kiss, my friend. Now, only good things can happen to you this year. Ask anyone.”

Legolas laughed and shoved Boromir in the shoulder, in that strange male-bonding manner than Gimli had always managed so easily. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed, and he had forgotten how good it felt.

^^

Gimli had always disliked New Year’s Eve – it was just a calendar day that someone arbitrarily decided was important for starting over. Never mind that a new year began every minute. No, this was evidently the one magical night to get trashed and make doomed resolutions to become a better person.

Fuck New Year’s.

Both Merry and Gimli were home in Minas Tirith that night, neither talking about the reasons they didn’t want to be in Minas Ithil. They'd spent the evening with Gimli's parents – his mom had cooked lentils and sausage and they'd talked while they watched _Fëanor's New Year's Rockin' Eve_ on television.

“Aren’t we supposed to sing a song or something?” Merry asked in a low voice, eying Gimli’s parents. The Glóinssons were positively snuggling together, after having rung in the new year with a tender kiss. In just a few minutes, they'd start yawning and noticing how late it was and then go off to bed. A dull way to start the year.

But Gimli's options weren't much better, were they?

“I suggest we raid the liquor cabinet and play drunken video games all night,” Gimli replied. He wasn't really in the mood for games, but that's what the vodka was for, right?

“Works for me,” Merry replied. 

Merry led the way to the den, where Gimli’s old Xbox still lived. Gimli found nothing terribly exciting among the bottles his father kept behind the leaded glass doors over the wet bar, so he grabbed a few flavors of Fanta from the fridge, instead. Depositing them unceremoniously on the coffee table, he scooped up a controller and plopped down on the couch next to Merry.

“ _Call of Duty: Azanulbizar_?” Merry asked, already sliding the disc into the console. Gimli grunted his assent and they played in near silence for almost twenty minutes, speaking only to direct each other or comment on particularly impressive kills. 

“It's nice not having someone nitpick about historical anachronism,” Merry said with a snort. “ _You know, the throwing axes your warrior is fighting with weren't used until at least T.A. 3000_.” His impression of Pippin was spot on.

“Bitter much?” Gimli scoffed. He rounded huge rock and right into a chaotic platoon of enemies. “Shit.” For a moment the conversation paused and the only sounds were the slash of axes and swords and the sickening squish of flesh being rent.

“Yes! And with good reason!” Merry retorted after they'd hacked through the worst of it. “And it's not like you've got room to talk. You've been scowling every time I've seen you since the break-up.”

Gimli hated the term _break-up_. It felt ugly and permanent and somehow rude to say to someone who'd so recently partaken in one. “It's not the same,” he said through gritted teeth. He took out his frustration on a hapless digital tree, throwing his axes over and and over for the satisfying _thwunk_ of it. “Are you seriously not speaking to him still because you're so mad at what he did? With someone you weren't even dating?”

Merry sighed heavily. “Yes... maybe? I don't know.”

“Decisive.”

“Shut up,” Merry countered, elbowing Gimli hard in the ribs. “He hasn't even tried to apologize!” His character – a Blue Mountain Firebeard – beheaded an enemy that lunged at them from the left and spun to stab another. Apparently another wave of bad guys had found them.

Gimli's Longbeard started hacking at them. “How can he apologize if you make sure you're never in the same room?”

“I have a phone!” Another guy cried out in agony as Merry jabbed him in the gut.

“And I bet you ignored his calls for weeks after.”

The sounds of battle were abruptly silenced as Merry paused the game. He turned in his seat to look Gimli in the eye. “What am I supposed to do? Go call him up and invite him over in the hope that he apologizes to me?” His tone was sarcastic, but Gimli guessed that there was an actual request for advice under there.

Gimli shrugged. “By now he probably thinks that _you_ need to apologize for avoiding _him._ ”

Merry was indignant. “Is that what you think? That I'm the one who's wrong here?”

“I don't think you started in the wrong, but you should've at least given him a chance to explain.” Halfway through speaking, a lump formed in his throat, but he swallowed it down, finishing without a waver.

“You mean explain why he violated the one rule of friendship that matters?” Merry's hands tightened on his game controller.

“I thought your one rule of friendship was to share your gaming dice with the less-fortunate,” Gimli replied with a smirk.

“The one _real_ rule – if your friend is sort of thinking of talking to a girl who obviously has a thing for him, you stay the hell away!”

“Oh yeah, _that_ rule.” Gimli shook his head. “Ever think that maybe Pip didn't know you were thinking of talking to her?”

“No.” Merry scowled, his eyes glued to the controller in his hands. “But best friends are supposed to know those things.”

Gimli was starting to get frustrated. Merry was way more stubborn than he'd realized. “In Hallmark Channel movies, maybe. In the real world, people have to actually say things.”

“Hey kettle, this pot just noticed that you're black,” Merry retorted.

“What the fuck? I never kept anything from Pippin!”

“Don't be deliberately obtuse. You know damned well that I'm talking about you and Legolas.”

A scowl twisted Gimli's mouth. “Don't.”

“You're telling me that I need to go talk to someone who hurt me in order to make it all better, but you're not even willing to consider talking to the person _you_ hurt!”

Gimli stared at the battlefield frozen on the television screen, trying to decide if he wanted to defend himself verbally or just punch Merry in the stomach. “I said, _don't_ ,” he growled.

Merry unpaused the game without warning. “Fine. I won't. Even though you're in a position to actually fix things, and all you have to do is admit you were wrong. Get serious or get over it.”

Admit he was wrong. If only it were that easy. Of course he was wrong. He'd realized it as soon as Legolas turned away that day. He'd even opened his mouth to call him back, but there just weren't any words that could erase the ones he'd just said. Short of time travel, he couldn't think of a single way to make Legolas turn back to him.

He'd spent so long thinking about leaving. He'd been analytical about it, with lists of pros and cons, scenarios, and drafts of possible conversations. And when he'd finally decided that breaking up was inevitable, he'd spent weeks just shutting down. On the surface he tried to keep up with Legolas's efforts, but internally he felt angry and hopeless. Then it was just a matter of getting up the nerve.

But when Legolas took that involuntary gulp of air, when the dawning understanding in his eyes morphed into pain – that was when Gimli had realized his mistake. In all of his calculations, he hadn't considered love, not properly. Gimli hadn't realized that Legolas would be walking away with the only part of him that really mattered.

The Xbox notification bubble popped up. _Ekrenbrand3419 is online_. Gimli groaned internally. Merry pestering him was bad enough. Did he need this reminder, as well?

“Isn't that Éomer's gamer tag?” Merry said, switching gears as only he could. “I should invite him to play with me sometime. I'm actually surprised he isn't here – he's in town this weekend.”

“We haven't been hanging out much lately.” He didn't mean for it to sound like a confession, but the way Merry looked at him made him wonder if he'd revealed more than he'd intended.

“Seriously? What happened?”

The last thing Gimli wanted was to tell Merry the whole sordid story. “Things,” he hedged. “Not necessarily good things.”

Merry's eyes grew wide. “What kinds of things?” he asked eagerly. He paused the game again.

“The things that can fuck up a friendship,” Gimli replied forcefully, hoping to shut down the conversation. He reached over and hit the _start_ button on Merry's controller. The frozen game burst into life once more.

“You slept with him?” The question wasn't accusatory. It wasn't even particularly surprised. It was just Merry wanting to know things. Like Merry always did. He didn't even miss a beat in the game, managing to duck around a huge warrior and attack him from behind. “Is that why you broke up with Legolas?”

“Fuck no!” Gimli cried. “And I didn't sleep with Éomer,” he clarified, because if Merry was going to gossip about him, it should at least be accurate.

“Then I need more information.”

Fucking hell. He couldn't believe he was doing this. “I broke up with Legolas. Then I talked to Éomer. Stuff... happened.”

“And now you're not hanging with him because...?”

Gimli wondered if Merry was really that dense or if he was just playing him to get all of the dirt. “Because that stuff doesn't happen when you're just friends. Not if you want to stay friends, damn it.”

“Is that what you want then? To stay just friends?” Merry looked thoughtful, even as he slaughtered in-game foes. “You could do a lot worse than Éomer.”

“I don't want to do Éomer,” Gimli said gruffly. “I love Legolas.” And he couldn't imagine a time when that wouldn't be the case.

“Then you should talk to him.”

“And tell him what? 'I love you; I want to get back together; I'm sorry I fucked up, and – by the way – I almost screwed Éomer on the floor of my studio?'”

Merry grimaced. “Well, I probably wouldn't say it exactly like that, but... yeah.”

Yeah. Nothing difficult about that, Gimli thought with a heavy sigh. He turned his attention back to the game, where his Longbeard was only seconds away from being killed. He dropped his throwing axes into the loops on his belt and pulled the massive battle axe from where it hung across his back. _Get serious or get over it._

It sounded almost like a New Year's resolution.


	12. Chapter 12

WINTER: Late February

It took no time at all for Rose's tiny hospital room to fill up. When Legolas arrived, Frodo and Merry were already there, joking with the happy parents; Frodo was beaming like the proudest of uncles. Rose was holding the baby – far too tiny to have accounted for the recent bulk of her pregnancy, it seemed to Legolas.

He kissed Rose's forehead, happy to note that she seemed no worse for the wear of the delivery. “You look beautiful,” he told her. He'd brought flowers – a vase full of tiny pale pink rosebuds – so he placed them on the table beside her bed.

“I do not,” Rose countered pertly. “But Elanor does, doesn't she?” She gazed happily at the child in her arms. The baby was awake, gazing up at her mother with round blue eyes.

Legolas smiled. “Yeah,” he said softly, reaching out to touch the soft down of curls that covered her head. “Hi, Elanor,” he told her in a low voice. “I'm Legolas. I think we're going to be great friends, you and me.” The baby opened her mouth, making some kind of noise that wasn't a gurgle or coo but was somehow a perfectly appropriate reply.

"She's just over six pounds," Frodo said, as though he were the proud papa. "Born at 9:43 this morning."

Sam grinned. "Frodo was here even before she was born, bearing gifts."

Legolas eyed the giant teddy bear in the corner; it was taller than Sam and had a seriously creepy smile on its face.

"That one's from Boromir," Merry explained, climbing onto the bear's lap. "He said he wouldn't be able to come to town for at least another week, but sent this fellow."

They sat together for a good twenty minutes, discussing the new baby and the difficult way she came into the world. Legolas realized, with a start, that this is what moving on was about. Three months had passed since things ended with Gimli, and here he was, smiling and laughing with friends. Hanging out with people without that pang of longing for the past, when everything seemed perfect.

Because it hadn't been perfect. Even before they'd moved in together, there hadn't been a good balance between them. He had lived and breathed for loving Gimli, while Gimli had divided his attention between his art and his boyfriend. It had taken a while after the break-up for Legolas to recognize that Gimli's divided attention wasn't what had made their relationship unequal. It was that Legolas had made him his whole world, without anything else to care about. That wasn't healthy.

_Everyone thinks putting people on pedestals is wrong because of the fall when they prove that they're not perfect_ , Arwen had said one night over drinks. _But the real harm is the strain in your neck from looking up at someone all the time._ Aragorn had made a show of rubbing his own neck, but the joke didn't diminish the wisdom. A year before, Legolas would have argued that his view of his relationship with Gimli was perfectly realistic – but Arwen recognized the imbalance, and she didn't even hang out with them that much.

Every day was a little bit easier, Legolas was learning. He'd thrown himself into his work, and had made a point to reach out to Tauriel more often. He had missed having her grounded guidance in his life.

"How long do you have to stay here?" Legolas asked Rose.

"The doctors say it depends on Elanor's progress – how much weight she gains, whether or not she's taken to breast feeding, that sort of thing," Merry answered.

Rose rolled her eyes, but smiled at Sam. Legolas had a feeling their day had been full of Merry already knowing everything they tried to tell him.

"And how about your progress?" Frodo asked her, smoothing her hair affectionately.

"Never better," she said, giving the swaddled baby to him to hold. Frodo handled Elanor easily, which made Legolas think he'd been holding her quite a bit in those first hours.

"Though I'll be honest," Rose continued, "a nap wouldn't be a bad thing. I was told to get my sleep whenever she does, but I'm too wound up to do anything but look at her."

"Because she's perfect," Sam and Frodo said in unison.

"We don't have to stay long," Legolas said. "If we're getting in the way of your sleep."

She waved a hand dismissively. "I expect it to be like this all day. Worse once my grandparents get here."

"Did Gimli drop by?" Legolas asked casually. Too obviously fake-casual, it seemed, by the look exchanged between Sam and Rose.

"Not yet," Sam said. "But he's planning to."

Legolas nodded. Feeling better about the break-up didn't necessarily mean that he was ready to be in the same room. "And Aragorn?"

"Just got here," Aragorn said from the doorway, a cluster of helium balloons in one hand. He stepped in and gave them to Rose, and wrapped Sam in a congratulatory bear-hug. Within five minutes of greeting everyone, Aragorn had Elanor nestled prettily in his arms.

"So what's with the creepy bear?" Aragorn asked.

"Boromir," Merry answered, finally climbing off of the bear's lap. "Apparently he thinks scary toys are appropriate for newborns."

"It's the thought that counts," Legolas said. "It's not like Boromir's the next in line to be a dad among this lot." Of course, with this group of friends, there was no telling. Only that it wouldn't be Boromir. Or him, for that matter.

Rose had been texting someone on her phone, a very focused and determined look on her face. Suddenly she looked up and beamed at Merry. "Are you ready to try holding her?" she asked, placing her cell phone on the table next to her bed.

"I'll break her!" Merry protested.

"Unlikely," Sam said. He took Elanor from Aragorn's arms and carefully placed her in Merry's. "See? Light as a feather! Just make sure you support her head, and you'll be fine."

Legolas laughed at the ridiculously alarmed expression on Merry's face, but his amusement died a moment later when Pippin crossed the threshold of the room, Diamond in tow. Pippin froze just past the doorway, seeing Merry. He glanced back at his girlfriend, uncertainty clear on his face.

For his part, Merry looked like he wanted to bolt. He took a step toward the door, but stopped, and Legolas wondered if it was the baby in his arms or the prospect of shoving past Pip that halted him. Probably both. Merry held the baby out to Sam, who crossed his arms stubbornly, and then Frodo, who also refused. “That's why you made me hold her!” he accused, looking at Rose with wide, shocked eyes. “Because you knew _he_ was coming!”

"Yep," she replied, smiling sweetly. "Di and I think it's high time you two stopped being jackasses about this."

Pippin opened his mouth to add his protest, but Diamond closed it with a sharp elbow-jab to his ribs.

Legolas snorted. Leave it to Rose Cotton to take charge of this miserable situation. She reminded him of Tauriel, whom he found he was missing more than ever lately. He wondered what she would've done, had she been around right after his breakup with Gimli.

After a long moment of the two silently sizing each other up, Pippin stepped forward. He looked stubborn. “Look, I'm sorry that you were pissed of by – ow! What the hell was that for, Frodo?” he demanded, grabbing his ear.

“I'll flick it again if you don't do this right,” Frodo said sternly, and Legolas remembered that the three of them were cousins – Frodo the oldest. He wasn't one to take charge often, but it was pretty cool to see that he could.

Pippin grimaced and turned back to Merry. When he met his friend's eyes, his expression turned genuinely contrite. “I'm sorry I screwed up, okay? It was stupid, and I was stupid for not realizing that she meant something to you.”

“The mere fact that Merry was talking to a girl at all should have been the first clue,” Aragorn murmured to Legolas, earning a sharp glare from Pippin.

“Well, she stopped talking to me altogether, thanks to you,” Merry said darkly. Elanor gurgled up at him, her blue eyes wide, but he didn't even look down at her. He was still seriously pissed off, Legolas realized.

“I made a mistake,” Pippin insisted, “but nothing happened between us that night. I swear! I tried to kiss her, but she wasn't interested.”

“Then why did she go upstairs with you in the first place?” Merry growled. And even though Legolas had already heard the whole story from Pippin, he momentarily wondered if it had been the truth. Why else would she have gone with him?

The question seemed to exasperate Pippin, who made a strangled noise of frustration and his lack of a real answer just made Merry angrier. Legolas had the feeling that if he hadn't been holding Elanor, Merry would have launched himself at Pippin already, and a maternity ward was a ridiculous place for a brawl.

To his surprise, Diamond moved forward, stepping between their silent standoff. She plucked the baby from Merry's arms, settling her expertly into her own. Then she stood between them, turning from one to the other and shaking her head.

“Pip didn't hook up with Stella,” Diamond said, looking squarely at Merry. “Believe me, I asked her.” Pippin made a startled sound, but she ignored him. “And as much as he's to blame – he was a total ass that night – you should be blaming me, too.”

Merry shook his head, astonished and disbelieving. “You should be pissed off, too!” he cried.

Diamond smiled grimly and turned to Frodo. “I owe you an apology,” she said. “I was upset with Pip that night and I kissed you to try to make him jealous. I guess I wanted us to be official. Together, you know.”

Sam stood up, looking a bit smug in his old-married-man way. “I've always found that talking about how you feel works best,” he said.

Legolas bit back a smile, recalling that it hadn't been as easy as that for Sam. He'd been painful to watch, even after he and Rose were dating. The fiasco that led to their first kiss was something he'd never forget.

Diamond turned back to Merry, taking his hand in both of hers. “Pippin _did_ get jealous, but he didn't react at all the way I wanted. Instead of swooping down to snatch me away, he found someone else to hit on. The only girl there without a boyfriend was Stella.”

“He could've considered Boromir or Éomer,” Aragorn murmured playfully. Legolas's stomach clenched, betraying him completely. He had deliberately refrained from thinking about Éomer at all lately, trying to burn away any thoughts of Gimli moving on in that particular direction.

“Like I said, she totally refused me,” Pippin added softly, his eyes beseeching. “She wasn't into me at all.”

Merry dropped own onto the hospital bed, next to Rose. She rubbed his back soothingly. “They're telling the truth, Merry,” she said.

“We got upstairs and the first thing she did was ask about you,” Pippin said, looking miserable.

“She's not even speaking to me, though,” Merry complained numbly.

Legolas rolled his eyes. “And have you tried speaking to her?” he asked. “Or were you pulling a Sam? Waiting for her to make all the moves because you're too scared?” That got a smile or chuckle out of nearly everyone, though Sam puffed up indignantly. Even Merry's lips quirked in consternation.

“There's still time,” Aragorn told him, his voice soft and encouraging. “Go find her.”

Merry considered it for about thirty seconds. “I... I've gotta go,” he said, standing and grabbing his coat. “I'll be back tomorrow, though. I just... have to make a phone call.” He moved to the door and then turned around. His face was uncertain and hopeful. “Pip?” he asked in a small voice.

Pippin stood taller. “Yep?”

“I'm sorry, too.” It was no more than a mumble, but it was all Pippin needed to launch himself at his friend. They hugged tightly.

“It's snowing,” Frodo said, looking out the bank of windows. “Just flurries, but be careful out there.”

Legolas glanced out and noticed a familiar motorcycle pulling into the parking lot. He didn't want to be stuck there when Gimli arrived. “I'll head out with you,” he said as Merry untangled himself from Pippin. “You know, to get on the road before it gets worse.” He wound his scarf around his neck, feeling strangely vulnerable.

They made their goodbyes to Sam and Rose, each kissing little Elanor. When Merry rushed back into the room to hug Pippin once more, another round of apologies bursting out between them, he started down the hallway on his own. The fear of running into Gimli, of having to be civilized or even friendly while powerful, conflicting emotions roiled within him, was strong enough to make him want to bolt. At the very least, he could get to the elevator safely and wait for Merry downstairs.

As he rounded the corner toward the maternity ward's lobby, those same elevators chimed. Gimli stepped out, dressed in his leather cycling jacket, his helmet tucked beneath one arm. Seeing Legolas, his eyes went wide. Legolas willed himself to keep walking. He nodded only slightly in Gimli's direction, all the while trying to gauge what he saw there: Was he healthy? Happy with his decision to end things?

But after only the slightest hitch in his gait, Gimli kept moving down the hall and Legolas got into the elevator he'd abandoned. Did it still smell like him – that strangely intoxicating combination of leather and paint thinner and Gimli – or was it just wishful thinking? He sighed and jabbed at one of the buttons.

He hadn't been able to glean even a single answer from Gimli's face. Not a single thing.

^^

It was a good thing he was in a hospital, because Gimli thought he might be having a heart attack. His chest felt like it had been jammed into a vise and breathing was sharp and painful. He'd known it would hurt, seeing Legolas again, but he had no idea it would be so physical. Visceral.

He'd come late on purpose, figuring that Legs would get there early and leave early, just to avoid him. And then, when the flurries began, he was sure he'd be safe – Legolas was exactly the sort to use snow as his excuse to leave. Gimli hadn't seen his car in the lot, so he figured it would be fine. He let his guard down. Big mistake.

So now he was in the smallest hospital room he'd ever seen, squished into a chair next to a scary-ass teddy bear, and holding a baby in his arms with no real recollection of how he'd gotten there. He remembered that Merry was leaving as he'd walked in – something about calling Stella Bolger and making up with Pippin – but anything he'd done or said since had been automatic. Including agreeing to hold Elanor. He must not be acting too strangely, though; everyone looked pretty darn happy.

He had to leave. He looked at Elanor, all red-faced and tiny. He couldn't think.

He stood. “I'm sorry.” He gave the baby back to Sam and tried desperately to smile at Rose. “The snow,” he said stupidly. “My bike, it doesn't do well in snow. I should've borrowed my mom's car.”

They didn't press – probably his state of mind was more evident than he'd thought – and a few minutes later he was stepping out into startling cold. He wasn't sure what the plan was, other than to get to his parents' house and smoke a week's worth of weed before midnight. That might let him forget the fake-cool of Legolas's expression. Unless it wasn't fake. Then he'd never forget it in a lifetime.

And just as his chest was clenching up again, Legolas was there. Gimli thought he must be a hallucination brought on by a lack of oxygen, but no. He was there. His Mercedes was parked in the spot beside Gimli's bike; his arms were crossed over his chest as he leaned on the car. Snow in his hair. Fuck. Gimli swallowed hard.

“I need to see you,” Legolas said evenly. He opened the passenger door of his car.

Gimli looked at the open door, panic rising in his chest. “My bike,” he said, blinking and confused.

“This is the Minas Tirith Hospital,” Legolas reminded him. “You could be gone a week and it'd still be here.”

He was right. And lords above, he wanted to see Gimli. To talk, he supposed. It wouldn't be fun, but it was better than the hellish not-talking of the past few months. “Okay,” Gimli said gruffly. He climbed into the car and put his helmet on the floor between his feet.

The drive was uncannily quiet. Gimli wondered where Legolas was taking him. Why he wasn't talking yet. “How have you been?” he asked at last. His voice sounded too loud in the silence.

Legolas's eyes didn't leave the road. “Managing,” he said. “Working a lot.”

“Even in winter?” Aragorn had told him when Legolas quit St. Aulë's, and given the nature of gardens, Gimli hadn't thought that the park job would be a year-round gig.

“There's a lot of planning to do.” Legolas fell still again, and the only sound was the low drone of the heater and the occasional _swish_ of windshield wipers.

And then the car pulled into a parking lot and up to a huge black awning where a valet with a spindly tree embroidered on the back of his coat waited. The breath left Gimli's lungs in a short gasp. They were at the White Tree. It was probably the most expensive place in Minas Tirith.

It was also a hotel.

“Is this okay?” Legolas asked in a low voice.

Gimli's heart hammered and his mouth went dry. He tried for casual. “Sure.” He'd failed.

^^

Legolas closed the door behind them and the room fell into that total darkness that seemed unique to hotel rooms. Gimli stood nervously near the door, unsure what to do. Legolas had said so little on the way there, and Gimli was afraid to break whatever spell allowed them to share the same space again after so long.

With a tiny _click_ , Legolas turned on one of the bedside sconces. He sat on the king-sized bed, the mattress so lush that it barely moved with his weight. Gimli had never been in a room like that – it looked like it'd been decorated by the kind of interior designer who makes more money than their clients. Legolas looked at him for a long moment, then patted the steel-grey duvet next to him. “Come here,” he suggested softly.

Gimli's heart lurched. He reached down and unlaced his boots, unwilling to risk dirtying up the plush carpet. His hands trembled over the knots. _Why did you bring me here?_

A few fumbling moments later, he crossed the room. He couldn't look at Legolas, couldn't bear not to see everything he longed to see in his face. Instead, his eyes focused on the bed. Did Legolas mean for him to sit there, next to him? Gimli wasn't sure he could. But it was something he desperately wanted. In the long months they were apart, how many times had he fantasized about just this moment?

But he didn't sit. When he came close enough, Legolas's hands shot out, grabbing his wrists and tugging until Gimli was standing before him. Gimli waited. Would Legolas question him? Tell him off? He was so nervous he could barely breathe.

And then Legolas's hands were on his thighs, his palms hot through denim. His touch was light, undemanding. Gimli closed his eyes. _What do you want me to do? Who do you need me to be?_ But he didn't ask the questions – no matter what the answers, he was willing. He slid his own hands over Legolas's and was gratified by his tiny gasp of surprise.

“I miss–” Gimli started, but Legolas's finger was on his lips in an instant.

“No,” he said with quiet intensity. His free hand gripped Gimli's hip, his long fingers gathering cloth and pressing into the softer flesh of his ass. A quick, startled glance showed Gimli that Legolas was hard beneath the wool pants he wore.

The breath left his lungs. He couldn't tell what Legolas was thinking. Something burned in his eyes, lust or love or even fury – Gimli couldn't read him at all. But that finger was still against his mouth, and he couldn't resist the temptation of it. His tongue flicked out, tasting.

Legolas's lips parted. “Gimli,” he said raggedly.

It was all the invitation he needed.

Gimli leaned down to kiss him and was surprised when Legolas suddenly stood, meeting him halfway. They stumbled against the bed and fell, already tangled together in a press of limbs and bodies. Legolas's hands were at once in his hair and unbuckling his belt and somehow shoving the leather jacket from his shoulders.

Why had he given this up? Why had he left Legolas? Gimli couldn't remember. At that moment, as his shaking hands worked the buttons of Legolas's shirt, as he tasted the sweet and salty contours of his throat, all he could think was how much he loved this man. How had he let himself stray so far from this path, so far from everything that mattered to him? “Legolas,” Gimli whispered against his neck. “Need you.”

Legolas pulled back a fraction, his eyes low-lidded and unfocused. “Damn, Gimli,” he growled, kissing and nipping at Gimli's lips. “Me too.” His hands pushed Gimli's jeans down and he ground hard against him. Gimli felt everything through the thin fabric of his boxers, had to keep himself from coming right away, it felt so good. “I realized when I saw you at the hospital,” Legolas said, his voice a damp breath against Gimli's ear. “I realized how much I need to get you out of my system.”

The words sent a wave of regret through Gimli. His chest tightened painfully. So that's how it was. He should have anticipated it, shouldn't have let himself hope. This was more than he deserved, after all, and Legolas didn't do take-backs. He'd known that for ages. “Okay,” he said softly, tracing the circle of Legolas's taut nipple with this thumb and closing his eyes against the delicious shudders it produced in Legolas's body. “Whatever you need.”

And then Gimli found himself on his back on the bed while Legolas tugged at the cuffs of his jeans, sliding them off his body and onto the floor. His jacket had been discarded on the night table, and Legolas plucked off one sock and then the other, so Gimli wore nothing but a t-shirt and boxer shorts. Gimli yanked at his own shirt, eager for skin to meet skin.

It turned out that Legolas was in no such hurry. He lingered over Gimli's ankle, his fingertip tracing the tail of his dragon tattoo around the bone and up his calf. “I always loved your tattoos,” he said, pressing a kiss against the dragon's head.

Legolas crawled up Gimli's body and picked up one unresisting hand. He nuzzled the inside of his wrist, the tip of his tongue tracing the marks inked there. Gimli closed his eyes, stifled a moan. That was Legolas's tattoo – a runic rendition of his name to commemorate their second anniversary. An intricate cuff had been added around the runes, eventually expanding to full bracers that went nearly to his elbows. Legolas traced the pattern of the tattoo, his fingertip expertly navigating the turns and angles he'd traced hundreds of times before.

He paused just inside the elbow, at the mark that looked like a mole but was, in fact, Gimli's first attempt at a tattoo – a tiny star made with a sewing needle and India ink he'd swiped from his middle school art room. No one but Legolas knew that he'd done it when he was fourteen – the summer his uncle had died – and that it was tiny because he'd been terrified of his father discovering it.

Legolas's other hand moved to Gimli's abdomen. There was no ink there, or across the wide expanse of his chest, and Gimli lost his breath as he realized that Legolas was thinking of tattoo he'd only ever talked about. _If I ever figure out how to draw the way you make me feel, I'll put it right here._ They'd been sprawled across the Murphy bed in his old apartment, and he'd put both of Legolas's hands over his stomach. _'Cause then, when I'm old and fat, I can prove that my feelings for you have only grown._

Now he swallowed hard and reminded himself that Legolas was seeking closure. One last fuck to say goodbye, to move on. To forget. Gimli could do that – he could give Legolas that.

He unbuttoned Legolas's pants and slid the zipper down, reaching past the elastic of his briefs to touch what waited there. Legolas growled softly, bucking into his palm. “Isn't this what we're here for?” Gimli asked in a low voice. Not waiting for an answer, Gimli shifted, tipping Legolas off balance just enough to press his advantage.

It didn't take long for the rest of the clothes to come off, and for a few blissful minutes, Gimli could almost pretend that nothing had changed. He wondered if there'd been anyone else for Legolas in the months apart, but shoved the idea aside as soon as he thought it. He didn't want to know.

“I want you to fuck me,” Legolas said into his ear. His breath was a damp hiss as Gimli's hand – already curled around Legolas's shaft – involuntarily tightened.

Gimli pulled back, looked hard into Legolas's eyes for the first time. Beyond the obvious – eagerness and desire – he couldn't read anything there. He wondered if Legolas was deliberately hiding from him, or if it was more than that. When had he stopped being able to understand his every mood with just one glance? Gimli suspected that it had been even before they'd broken up.

“You sure?” he asked. Legolas clearly wasn't drunk, but some deep protectiveness made him want to be extra careful this time. To save Legolas from harm, even from himself.

Legolas leaned up and caught Gimli's mouth in a slow, sexy kiss. “I'm sure I'm sure,” he said, the ghost of a smile creasing his face for the first time. “I want you inside me.”

That was exactly what Gimli wanted, too, but something warned him that they were about to pass the point of no return. He didn't move for a long moment, his mind tumbling over all the possible ramifications of going further. This wouldn't lead to closure for him – every scenario he imagined took him toward more regret and misery. Gimli closed his eyes, trying to still the unrest.

“Hey,” Legolas said softly, his hand sliding into the hair at Gimli's temple. Gimli blinked. Legolas was looking at him with concern. “You okay?” He asked, a tiny crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Let's do this.” He kissed Legolas again, his mind made up.

It wasn't the best sex of Gimli's life – he was too uncertain, too much in his own head – but it was good: hard and fast, the way they both had always loved it. Gimli took him face-to-face, determined to memorize and store away every moment, every expression, but it turned out that he'd already known them all.

And later, when they lay trying to catch their breath, Gimli lingered, tangled up in Legolas's limbs and still deep inside him. “I'm still in love with you,” he said. He hadn't planned to say it, but as soon as it was out there, he realized that he didn't want to take it back. “I think I always will be.”

Legolas looked up at him, his golden hair a disarray across the still-made bed. His expression was pained. “But it doesn't change anything, does it?”

Of course not. Gimli couldn't take back his decision to move out any more than than he could unmake the the bright spots on Legolas's cheeks or the sheen of sweat on both of their skin. _I wish it could._

They said nothing for a long moment and Gimli rolled off of Legolas. He sat up and grabbed his boxers from the floor. This part had never been awkward before. Was he supposed to leave? He didn't know what else to do – he couldn't stay now. Could he?

“Why did you end it?” Legolas asked. His voice was distant, and when Gimli glanced over his shoulder, he was looking toward the curtained windows, his expression shuttered.

_Because I wondered if we'd fallen out of love,_ Gimli thought. _Because you'd stopped caring about my art. Because I hated playing second fiddle to your garden._ “I didn't like who we'd become.” Legolas didn't speak, and Gimli's words hung like an accusation. “People change,” he continued, looking down at his hands. “And maybe we had just... grown apart.”

“But people learn to change together,” Legolas replied, his voice hard. “I thought we had a chance to catch it before it drove us apart.”

Gimli felt sick. “It hurt. I gave up.” _Like I always do._

“I never did.”

The silence after those three words was worse than anything else. Even worse than watching him walk away at Mordor Adventureland. It was the agony that he'd been trying to dull with weed and vodka. Gimli was unable to move or speak or do anything at all.

Legolas rose from the bed, pulling on his clothes. “You can stay here,” he said, buttoning his shirt and sliding into his loafers. His voice was gentle, but resigned. “I'll go to my father's.”

And then he was gone. Out of the hotel room, out of Gimli's life.

Undoubtedly for good, this time.


	13. Chapter 13

SPRING: March

“I'm starting to wonder if I'm over-thinking this.”

“ _Starting_ to wonder?” Tauriel laughed. It wasn't a mean laugh, but it did have something of a reality-check quality about it. “Legolas, sweetie, you've been thinking of nothing else for two weeks!”

He opened his mouth to protest – she hadn't been home even one week, so how could she know? But then he considered the phone calls, sometimes more than two per day, all of them rehashing the same old stuff about Gimli, about That Night.

“I think about other things,” he mumbled defensively.

Tauriel nodded and patted his back affectionately. “Of course you do,” she said. “The whole reason we're here is because you wanted to show me something, right? That basically proves you've got room for other things in that head of yours.” She looked at him sideways, her eyes narrowing. “Unless this is also Gimli-related?”

She looked like a little kid who suspected she'd just been tricked; Legolas burst out laughing. “Not this time,” he promised. He was glad that Tauriel was back. Her tour had ended more almost a month earlier, closing in a small city on the shores of the Sea of Rhûn. Tauriel had decided to linger, sightseeing, but she hadn’t stayed there for more than a couple of weeks, thank goodness.

That morning they were in Fangorn – not the best neighborhood in Minas Ithil, but something of an up-and-comer. Legolas's new park project was there, and almost as soon as he'd started working, he'd fallen in love with the place.

It was an older part of town, with plenty of interesting architecture and mature trees. Lots of graffiti and litter, too, but Legolas secretly thought the worn-down look only added to the neighborhood's appeal. Until recently, the area had been under the dubious protection of the East of Númenor Tribe, a youth gang who sold drugs on the streets and chased out any kind of corporate endeavor that threatened the Mom and Pop places the kids' families owned. The surprising result was a lot of stable local businesses – even Starbucks hadn't been able to get a foothold in Fangorn – and a strong sense of community. The gang had been disbanded after a police crackdown the year before and a chain grocery store had since managed to open up without having its windows broken out, but the area was definitely retaining its independent charm.

“What do you think of the neighborhood?” Legolas asked, eager. They were walking down a tired back street – kids rode scooters on the sidewalks and an old woman stood on her porch in her housecoat, watching as her dog furiously barked at them through a chain-link fence.

Tauriel looked skeptical. “It looks like the kind of place your father would go out of his way to avoid driving through,” she said, peering over her sunglasses at an abandoned house with broken-out windows.

“Well, Dad's not the most open-minded guy,” Legolas said, agreeing with her statement but refusing to accept it as a fair assessment of the neighborhood. He loved the real, lived-in flavor of the place. Sure, most of the homes needed a little attention – some paint, some curtains, someone to mow the lawns – but they were old houses, built in the days when things were made to last. Even in their current state of disrepair, they were beautiful. “Look at that,” he said, pointing to an ornate cut glass front window that had to be eight feet high. “You pay out the nose for details like that nowadays, but here they're actually commonplace.”

“Because no one has updated their house in the last sixty years,” Tauriel said dryly.

“Maybe so, but if you have the money to renovate, any one of these places would be a diamond in the rough!”

She stopped walking and put her hands on her hips. “Are you telling me that you want to buy a house here?” she asked, incredulous. “You might end up with a gorgeous place, but no one would envy the view!”

Legolas didn't answer – they had reached the end of the block, and he'd chosen this route specifically for this moment. At first Tauriel wasn't paying attention, but he could see it the moment she saw it, too. Her feet slowed, her sunglasses came off. “What is this?” she asked.

They were looking into a park – its arched gateway the only remnant of the walls that used to surround it. _Limlight Park_ was wrought in iron over the top, though the gates themselves were long gone. And beyond, in a meadow of weeds and patches of bare earth, was a bustling fair.

“A farmer's market?” Tauriel asked incredulously. “Here?”

Legolas smiled. He'd felt the same way when he'd stumbled across it the week before. “Apparently Fangorn doesn't even know they're trendy,” he told her. “They've been doing this for years.” He took her hand. “Come on, let's look around.”

They wandered up and down the two main thoroughfares, pausing every couple of booths to admire the wares. It wasn't just a farmer's market at Limlight Park; it was also a flea market, and the vendors sold everything from antique furniture to the old toys and used clothing that were standard yard-sale fare. Tauriel admired a pair of vintage earrings – overpriced, because Legolas was certain they weren't really emeralds, but he bought them for her on the sly just the same. He liked buying presents, and now that he didn't have Gimli to spoil, Tauriel was the obvious alternative.

They passed a tent where an artist was selling paintings. They weren't as nice as Gimli's, but Legolas stopped to browse through some canvases. “It's too bad,” he said softly to Tauriel as she came up beside him. “Gim would've really liked this.”

She shook her head, and for a moment he thought she was disagreeing. “Eventually, you're gonna need to decide to stop that,” she said. Her tone was matter-of-fact, and it sent a shiver of unease across Legolas's skin.

“Stop what?” he asked. He backed out of the tent, feeling like this wasn't going to be a conversation he'd like to have strangers witness.

“Stop looking at the world the way you did before,” she said gently. “He's gone. No amount of wishful thinking or analyzing that last night together will change that.”

He turned away from her, knowing she was right but afraid he might get angry just the same. She didn't understand how he felt – not really. He'd hooked up with Gimli for closure, but he'd ended up even more confused. “He said he was still in love with me,” he reminded her. “And he didn't use… anything.”

She yanked him around to face her, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “You mean like a condom?” she hissed. “You never told me that!” He was glad she realized what a big deal that was. “Do you think you should get tested?”

He'd been thinking about it a lot. Gimli wasn't careless about those things. Ever. They'd been together for almost a whole year and had both been tested for absolutely everything before he was willing even to discuss having so much as a blow job without protection. But that night he hadn't said a word. Was it safe, then, to assume that he hadn't been with anyone else? Éomer's face flashed behind his eyes. He shoved it away.

He must've also trusted that Legolas hadn't, either. What did that mean? “You don't suppose he just assumed I hadn't moved on, do you? That I've been too heartbroken to find anyone else?”

“Haven't you, though?” She didn't say it to be cruel. Tauriel was never cruel – she was just painfully honest. “Ooh – ice cream!”

Legolas shrugged and followed her to a booth selling hand-cranked ice cream. She bought a cone for each of them and then began walking again, this time toward a weathered bench beneath a huge tree.

He sat next to her and lapped at his cone. "It's one thing for me to be sitting around heartbroken and another thing entirely for him to assume I am," he insisted. It sounded like high school reasoning, and Legolas wondered if getting into a serious relationship so young had somehow stunted him emotionally.

Tauriel rolled her eyes. "You know, there's no law that says you can't talk to him and try to get back together."

"I can't do that," he responded immediately. "You know I can't do that."

"I think you're mixing up the words _can't_ and _won't_ ," she said, punctuating it with a slurpy lick up one side of her ice cream cone. "Last I heard, you were Legolas Thranduilion and could do anything you damn well pleased."

He felt a swell of something painful in his chest. Did she honestly think he hadn't considered showing up at Gimli's studio and begging him to reconsider? It wasn't his stupid rule keeping him from it. It wasn't even his pride. It was the fear of Gimli's rejection. Again. "He's the one who dumped me, Tau," Legolas pointed out. “My taking him back kind of requires him being interested in being taken.”

She snorted inelegantly. "After what you told me about that night, I'm pretty sure he's interested in that."

“Not helping!” He shoved her, accidentally knocking her ice cream into a trash can that was spray painted with green gang symbols. She glowered at him and plucked his own cone from his hand. "Can we talk about something else?" Legolas asked.

"Isn't that what I've been suggesting for the last six years?" She stuck out her tongue before taking a huge bite of the ice cream that used to be his.

"You're terrible," Legolas said with a mock scowl. “Come with me.”

He led her across the park, over broken concrete paths and past an empty pond with a dry, terraced fountain where generations birds had made nests. Instead of seeing patches of weeds and dirt, he showed her where flower beds would one day be and where trees would someday shade vast swathes of dark green grass. “This park is the oldest in the city,” he told her. “There was once a bandstand with a dancing pavilion and an open-air roller rink. It was really the heart of this neighborhood.” Legolas glanced back toward the market. “I guess it still is, in a way. I want to make it beautiful again.” 

“Look at you,” Tauriel said, smirking. “You're practically glowing.”

He was still miserable about Gimli, but somehow he did feel better. There was something about that place, about striving to make Limlight Park a place the community could be proud of once more, that almost made up for everything else.

Almost.

As they came to the far side of the park, Legolas redirected Tauriel's attention across the street. "There," he said with a nod.

"What?" Tauriel asked. She peered over her sunglasses. “What am I looking at?”

“The house.” Legolas could hear the smile in his voice. He'd been wanting to show her since he'd discovered it a week before.

“That house?” she asked incredulously. It was a small home – the end unit of an old turn-of-the-century townhouse. It had broken windows and a half-collapsed front porch, but the small, overgrown garden was home to a craggy old cherry tree in full bloom. A sign beneath the tree announced that the property was for sale. “You want to buy it?”

"I think so. Maybe," he said. "I haven't actually spoken to a realtor yet. I'm not quite ready, financially.”

"Can't you just ask your dad?" Tauriel asked. “He'd sort it all out for you.”

Legolas shook his head. "I'm done living like a spoiled rich kid. I'm ready to do grown-up things, like pay my own bills and worry about my job."

Her eyebrows shot up. "So you're giving up the trust fund? And the stocks?" She bit the edge of the cone with a massive crunch.

"Well, let's not be hasty."

She laughed prettily and he realized for the hundredth time how much he'd missed her. "No, anything but that," she agreed. She darted across the street toward the old brownstone. "Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “Let's check this place out!"

^^

"Come on in," Gimli said, ushering Ms. Galadriel into his studio. "I put one up so you can see it properly. Not as much room here, though, so it's kinda sloppy." His former art teacher was visiting Minas Ithil for the week, and she'd called to ask Gimli if she could stop by and see his progress. He hoped he didn't disappoint.

She stepped carefully around the studio, circling the one completed chandelier that hung haphazardly from the skylight. The light poured in through and around the translucent plastic, providing an effect similar to how it should look when wired with LED lights at the theater. Galadriel said nothing, leaning in to study the various sections, even, after getting a nod of permission from Gimli, touching the lowest-hanging parts.

"I'll be able to finish the other one in the next week or so, and then comes the installation in the theater. Have to meet with the electrician for wiring, though, and the renovation contractor to make sure it's hung safely. Turns out they don't trust an unproven artist to manage that." He laughed a bit self-deprecatingly. “With good reason, I suppose.”

"Gimli," she half-scolded, not turning her face from the chandelier but looking at him from the corner of her eye. "You certainly won't be able to call yourself unproven after this is revealed."

"You think so?" It was funny; he was always fairly confident in his abilities, but something about having her there made him feel like he was in ninth grade again, seeking her approval for every brushstroke and every idea. "I feel like my work has... diminished lately."

She came back to him, taking both of his hands in hers and smiling at him warmly. "You've changed, Gimli," she said. "And that change is evident in your art. You've always reflected your moods in your work, and this is no different.

"It's darker than I'd expected," she continued, dropping his hands and eyeing the piece critically. "When you told me you'd be using recycled soda bottles I thought you would be doing something bright and fun, and I wondered if you'd seriously considered the mood and style of the Aiwenórë theater. But this... this is chiaroscuro. You've mastered the light and dark in the shape and in the color. It's bold, it's aggressive – and yet there's a soft elegance to it that reminds me so much of you. It's perfect for a theater known for its opera."

Gimli felt a wave of relief wash over him. "I haven't been very good lately, with drawing or painting or anything. I'm just uninspired." He let out a short bark of a laugh, and it sounded bitter even to him. "I was lucky that I had a concrete plan for this, at least, before... everything. I don't know if I would've been able to finish."

Galadriel's eyes were sympathetic, and Gimli couldn't maintain contact. He had told her about things with Legolas the last time they'd seen each other. He'd sought her out in Minas Tirith after New Year's, and she'd asked to come to see his work. He thought maybe she would understand what this kind of emotional upheaval could do to an artist. Maybe she could help him fix it.

"We all go through phases. We love particular colors, or a certain medium. We focus on the same subject. Sometimes we let the world outside the studio drive our artistic temperaments, and sometimes we allow our art to influence the outside world. I wonder, Gimli, if maybe you're so analytical that you forget that your feelings are determining what you want to do and how you want to do it."

He knew he was analytical. He was an over-thinker, and always had been. Do the research, make the plans, make a back-up plan. The only time he'd ever gone with his gut was when he fell for Legolas – a few weeks of flirting and a couple of deep conversations and he was completely gone on the guy. Nothing else had ever been that easy. Nothing but his art, and now that was a mess, too.

"But don't fret," she added, offering a calming smile. "Who you are is a wonderful thing. Who else would have managed to keep the grant money funding this lifestyle for so long? It's been six years – most people would have drained the grant dry after just a year or two. And Minas Ithil is hardly an inexpensive place to work. You are extraordinary, Gimli Glóinsson.”

He felt himself flush under her praise. "The well is drying up soon enough," Gimli said with a sigh. "I'm going to have to give up this studio. Or find some way to live here."

Galadriel took a long look around the small studio and he cringed. He couldn't imagine a cat living in a place like that, let alone a person. "I think you've outgrown this space," she said wisely. "Not necessarily in area, but in your experiences. You're not the same person you were when you started, and it's time to find a new place that reflects who you are now. And there are also all your new clients to consider. You'll want a place designed to impress."

"New clients?" As far as Gimli knew, he hadn't really had any old clients. Apart from this commission, anyway.

"Oh yes," she said with a nod. "Once your name is featured in the arts section of every Minas Ithil newspaper, you're going to be fielding inquiries from galleries and private collectors wanting to know what all you're capable of. And maybe, eventually, someone will want to learn from you.”

“I can’t teach,” he said reflexively.

She cast another sidelong glance at him before turning to one of his older canvases, thrown haphazardly onto the beat-up couch. “You’ve always been able to describe your ideas, demonstrate your techniques. You know your influences and can catalog every trick you’ve picked up over the years, whether learned from me or other teachers. I think you have more to offer than you know.” She laughed. “It’s a natural part of being a young artist, thinking you must be alone and pensive in order to get work done. But some of my best work was done while I was surrounded by students, inspiring me.”

“Students inspire you?” Gimli couldn’t imagine how a bunch of grubby stoner high school kids could inspire anyone to create the beautiful paintings Galadriel had produced when he was at Minas Tirith High School.

“Some,” she answered lightly, turning to face him again with a radiant smile. “Which is why I’m going to teach at Valinor, beginning in the autumn.”

“Valinor University?” It was the most prestigious school in the world. Just three people Gimli knew had been accepted, and of them, only Frodo had actually gone. Even Arwen had been daunted by the prospect, choosing to come to Minas Ithil to complete her molecular biology PhD program rather than traveling so far from home.

And even though Ms. Galadriel hadn’t been a part of his daily life since graduating, the idea of her not being a fairly short train ride away left him with a keen sense of loss. “Why?” he asked, disliking the petulance in his voice. “I mean, you already have students at Minas Tirith High School!”

“I went to Valinor for college, you know,” she said wistfully. “And I always intended to go back at some point. Life got in the way. Sometimes it was because of students I wanted to coach, sometimes it was other things. Then I met Celeborn, and, well, everything changes as soon as you’re living with someone else.”

Gimli snorted in agreement.

“But now is the time,” she said with a smile.

“I’ll miss you,” he said quietly, feeling a strong pang in his chest, an echo of the larger ache he’d become accustomed to lately.

“It’s not goodbye forever,” Galadriel said, taking his hand. “Just for now, because you’re going to come and visit me eventually. And until then we’ll Skype, so you can show me all the things you’re working on.”

“I can do that,” Gimli replied.

“But before we part, let’s find a good place to eat,” Galadriel said, reaching for her macramé handbag.

“How about Ham & Hen? It’s Aragorn’s favorite diner. You remember Aragorn Elessar, right?”

Galadriel laughed. “Oh yes. He was the class president who spent most of his senior year kissing Arwen Undómiel in every corner, wasn’t he?”

“That's the one,” Gimli said with an exaggerated sigh. “And now he’s continuing the trend in a different city. But he has great taste in omelets, too, so let’s go there.”

^^

Gimli hadn't been to St. Aulë's since he'd split with Legolas. Even longer, really, since he hadn't come often toward the end of things. As he walked through the door, the bustle of late-afternoon in the city fell away into quiet dimness. It was early yet – only the serious straight-after-work drinkers were there. He skipped over half a dozen empty tables, sliding into a booth at the back, near the empty karaoke stage.

Aragorn wasn't there yet, but Gimli didn't mind waiting. He'd missed the bar, but hadn't felt right coming there anymore. Even after Aragorn told him that Legolas had quit – finally deciding to focus his energy on the park job, it seemed – Gimli hadn't been able to bring himself to come. Back when he was still in high school, when he'd come to Minas Ithil to visit Legolas, they would come to St. Aulë's to watch Tauriel blow the place away with her karaoke. It was one of the few places on this side of town that allowed eighteen-year-olds entrance, and it stayed their favorite hangout even after they both turned twenty-one. Legolas started working there soon afterward.

St. Aulë's had become a second home for them, and yet now the bar made Gimli feel sad and nostalgic. A waitress he didn't know came to take his order – onion rings and Orange Crush, because he knew he'd been drinking too much lately. And smoking too much, and spending too much time alone. That was why he had come to see Aragorn.

As though his thoughts had summoned him, Aragorn came bounding through the door. He waved to the bartender and glanced around for Gimli, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the sunshine outside.

“What's going on?” he asked, dropping his messenger bag on the bench before sitting opposite Gimli.

Gimli sighed heavily. He wasn't even sure where to begin. “Everything's wrong,” he said at last, twisting his paper napkin into a short rope. “I fucked it all up.”

Aragorn let out a low whistle. His expression, already turning serious the moment he'd seen Gimli, became troubled. “Things are certainly different now,” he said. “I suppose you want everything to go back to how it was?”

Gimli was tempted to say yes. He wanted to be with Legolas – he knew that much – and if someone offered him a way to go back in time he might, but did he really want everything to be the way it was? “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don't think so.”

The waitress came back, bringing Gimli's order and a glass of water for Aragorn. He asked her for some chili-cheese fries, flashing a grin. She smiled back – that dopey look girls always got after speaking to him, and Gimli wondered what it must be like to be able to make people happy with no more than a look. Aragorn's grin faded, however, as he turned back to Gimli. “I don't understand,” he said, reaching over to swipe an onion ring.

“I did exactly what he expected,” Gimli said. “When things got hard, I didn't try to work through it; I tucked my tail and ran.” He pulled off his glasses and rubbed at a painful spot between his eyebrows. “I ditched him – I ditched _us_ – because I couldn't see a way to fix a problem.”

Aragorn didn't speak. He nodded slowly and waited for Gimli to gather his thoughts and continue.

“You know, I've spent the last few months going over everything that happened, everything that I said or did, and I can see about a million mistakes. All those little things that would've made it better.”

“Yeah, hindsight is like that,” Aragorn said ruefully. His fries arrived and he popped one into his mouth hungrily. “But it's tricky, too. Sometimes a thing looks easy when really it's the hardest thing to do.”

But it should've been easy to say the right things. It should've been easy to predict when Legolas wanted to spend time alone and when it was okay to have friends over. Legolas had been sending the signals, but somehow Gimli hadn't received them. Not until it was too late. “But I realized that the past was done. I'd fucked up and there wasn't anything to be done about it. I tried to move forward. I worked on my project and I actually thought I was making progress – that I was in a better place. But then everything changed when– I guess Legolas told you about that, though.”

“Told me about what?” Aragorn asked, confused.

Gimli shook his head. There was no way Legs hadn't told him. He was terrible at secrets and usually over-shared with his friends. “About hooking up after we met at the hospital? The day Elanor was born?”

“What?” Aragorn cried. He choked on his water and fell into a fit of coughing. “No,” he said at last, regaining some of his composure. “He didn't say a word about that.”

“Oh.” Gimli's face flushed hot and he was grateful for the low light. It was one thing to listen to Legolas to talk about their sex life, but he wasn't remotely as comfortable when the explanations were his own. “Well, yeah. That happened.”

“And then what?” Aragorn prompted. He leaned forward unconsciously, his eyes wide.

“Then he left.” Gimli took a bite from an onion ring, hoping that it would mask the quake in his hands and the tremor in his voice. “And I hung out in a swanky hotel room by myself for the rest of the night, wondering what the fuck had just happened and wishing I'd stopped him from leaving.” He paused, ripping the breading off the onion in his hand. “Wishing I'd told him about Éomer.”

Aragorn frowned – consternation this time, rather than concern. “So, you and Éomer started something after the break-up?” His disappointment was clear in his voice. “That's what Legolas thought would happen.”

“It's not that simple,” Gimli protested. He didn't like the look on Aragorn's face – not because his friend was judging him, but because he knew he deserved it. “I was upset and lonely and he was there. Anyway, I put the moves on him, but he stopped me before we got anywhere.”

Now Aragorn looked incredulous. “ _He_ stopped _you_?” he asked.

Clearly Legolas wasn't the only one who'd noticed Éomer's unspoken feelings. Gimli felt like a complete idiot for being blind to it all this time. “Yeah,” he said, almost regretting confessing about Éomer in the first place. It was no one's business but their own, after all, and it wasn't like he'd cheated. But it felt like it was becoming a dirty little secret. That meant that Gimli had to tell someone – and tell Legolas – or else it'd become something shameful.

Gimli didn't want to talk about Éomer anymore. “I've nearly called Legs every day since that night together. It's like the whole world's come unraveled and Legolas is the only one who can wind it back up for me.” He took a drink of his soda. He felt like he was really losing his shit lately, unable to concentrate or paint or even feel like himself until they talked things out. “But every time I pull out my phone, I think of how furious he'll be when I tell him about what happened. Even if he ever considered taking me back, it'll never happen now, because of that. Because I was stupid, and saved from even more stupidity only because Éomer's a good guy.”

Aragorn took longer than Gimli expected to digest this, and he wondered if it was due to the Éomer revelation or because he was trying to find a nice way to remind him that Legolas would never take him back anyway. He ate his fries, a thoughtful look on his face, and when he looked like he might speak, Gimli panicked.

“It doesn't matter,” he said suddenly, almost toppling his drink as he waved away whatever his friend was thinking of saying. He was desperate to change the subject, if only so that he wouldn't hear Aragorn telling him things he already knew. “I'm a wreck and I fucking deserve it. Instead of rehashing what went wrong, I clearly need to find a way to do something right. Something that gets me past this. Past Legolas.”

Aragorn looked at him shrewdly. “But you want to talk to him.”

“Of course I do.”

“You say you don't want things to go back to how they were, but you wouldn't be freaking out about what happened with Éomer if you weren't concerned about it ruining any chance you might still have with Legolas.” He paused, the hint of a smile in the creases of his eyes. “Which means you're hoping.”

“I guess I am,” Gimli admitted quietly. He'd been hoping since he'd first spotted Legolas leaning against his car in the snow. He'd been hoping for a phone call ever since that night. Every time he got a text, there was a breathless moment of expectation. He imagined Legolas reaching out to explain what had happened, or to confess that he, too was replaying every second in his head. “I really miss him.”

Aragorn was quiet again, letting that soak in. Then he reached across the table and took both of Gimli's hands in his own, startling him. “I can't speak for Legolas. He didn't even tell me about that night, so clearly I'm no expert. But I do know he's in pain.”

Gimli flinched. He'd caused that.

“So think hard about your next move. Don't go to him unless you really mean it. You need to come clean about Éomer, but only if you're serious about making it work – don't hurt him even more if you can't fix the shit that came between you to start with.” His gaze softened and his fingers tightened around Gimli's. “But first, there's you. Stop hurting yourself, Gimli.”

He couldn't even protest. He'd been trying to self-destruct since Barad-dûr. Everything since then had been experienced through a haze of misery. Everything except that night with Legolas. “I'll try,” he said, his voice tight.

Aragorn shook his head and released his hands to take a long swig of his water. “Don't try,” he countered in his best class-president voice. “Do it.”


	14. Chapter 14

SPRING: Mid-April

Legolas hadn't expected photographers. He forced himself to relax, keeping the hand holding the tickets slack and casual. His other hand, deep in the pocket of his tuxedo pants, was balled into a tight fist. He smiled for the camera, though, as Tauriel linked her arm through his, turning just enough to display her gown at its most stunning angle. She was an absolute vision, dressed in a slinky, floor-length gown of gold organza – at least that's what he thought she said it was – while most of the other women lingering outside the theater wore black or navy, occasionally silver or white. Between her dress and her long, loose hair, it was impossible for eyes – and cameras it seemed – not to be drawn to Tauriel.

“Thank you,” she murmured in his ear, a smile in her voice. This wasn't the kind of event that someone could simply buy tickets for – it was by invitation only, and the crème-de-la-crème had been invited: diplomats, politicians, millionaires. Legolas's father had suggested that Legolas take his place, a suggestion he'd been perfectly willing to ignore until Tauriel had gotten wind of it.

Tonight's opera, _The Song of Arda_ , was a favorite among devotees of the art, which Tauriel definitely was. And apparently there would be a professor delivering a lecture prior to the show. He was supposed to be the foremost expert in the mythology the opera had been based on, and Tauriel had nearly gone mad at the prospect of hearing him speak.

But the theater itself was the real star that evening, its doors thrown open for the first time in nearly two years after one of the most extensive renovation projects Minas Ithil had seen in decades. And Gimli's installation would be front and center, filling the entire two-story lobby, if his sketches were any indication. Legolas had been queasy and tense since waking that morning. He'd almost bailed on Tauriel, offering the invitation to her and urging her to take anyone else instead.

“But think of it,” she had coaxed. “This is your chance to go and show him that you're fine – more than fine, that you're wonderful! We can drink champagne and pretend he doesn't exist. Plus, we get to see what is arguably the best opera ever written.” When he didn't look enthused, she'd nudged him with her elbow, grinning. “Did you know that Mahal – only the most celebrated basso profundo in the whole, wide world – is singing the role of Aulë?”

He didn't know what had frustrated her more: the fact that he wanted so desperately to avoid Gimli, or that he hadn't known that the bar he'd worked at for almost three years was named after a character from classic literature. But she'd begged him to go, insisted that it was too late for her to find another date. And hadn't he already purchased a tuxedo and polished his shoes? “It would be a waste for you to stay home.”

Presenting their invitation to the doorman, they stepped into the large, open foyer. Legolas's breath caught in his throat. Even in such a gorgeous room, even in a crowd of beautiful people, his eyes were drawn immediately up. Gimli's chandeliers. They were at the same time massive and delicate, each one a fragile collection of twisted plastic hanging from a spiral of sturdy metal. The plastic coils – all those damned soda bottles – had been carefully cut and punched until they looked almost like lace, translucent with glimmerings of brighter light peeking from behind. They varied in length: long and elegant near the ceiling, short and impatient toward the bottom. Gimli had done something to tint the plastic, giving the chandeliers a dipped look – clear and bright near the top but spiraling down into charcoal darkness at their tips.

Just looking at them, he could see the arc of Gimli's mood. He could feel the optimism Gimli had felt upon starting the project, the hope and delight in finding a new medium to work with. Then there came the frustration. The misery. It was palpable, almost a tactile sensation, and a lump formed in Legolas's throat as he gazed up.

A dozen memories flooded his mind – memories of going to Gimli's studio to watch him work, of learning to see Gimli in every painting or sculpture he did. He remembered choosing which paintings would look best in his father's penthouse and lying together in Gimli's childhood bed at his parents' house, smoking a post-coital joint and discussing what it was, deep inside Gimli, that made him need to create these things.

“Are you okay?” Tauriel asked, tugging on his arm.

Legolas tore his eyes from the chandelier, swallowing the lump in his throat. “This was a bad idea,” he said.

“Legolas and Tauriel!” a familiar old voice called from behind them. “I'm delighted to see you both here!” They turned to see Mr. Gandalf, holding his pipe in one hand, the other on the arm of a shorter man clad in a tweed jacket. “But you both have particular interests here, I recall, so I cannot say I'm at all surprised.” He gestured toward his companion. “The professor and I were heading out for a smoke,” he said, holding up his pipe. “I believe, sir, that you may be acquainted with young Mr. Thranduilion's father.”

The old man nodded politely. “Indeed,” he said, reaching out to shake Legolas's hand. “I have considered him a friend him for many years.” His eyes widened as he turned to Tauriel. “But I certainly have not met this beautiful friend of yours,” he said.

Gandalf made introductions and Tauriel and the professor fell immediately into a conversation about the opera and the creation mythos behind it. Legolas saw a server circulating with a tray of champagne flutes and took the opportunity to excuse himself.

“There was no particular inspiration,” he heard a familiar voice say from behind a crowd of people. Legolas realized that he could go a thousand years without hearing Gimli's voice and he would still recognize it anywhere. “I had probably about forty designs, and this was the one I kept coming back to.”

“But why plastic bottles?”

Legolas wormed his way through the crowd, not wanting to get to the front of the circle, only close enough to see Gimli. He realized with chagrin that, for someone who was so desperate not to see Gimli that he almost hadn't come, he was going through a lot of trouble just to get a glimpse of him.

And then he did.

Gimli was standing with a tall slender man who, by the look of arrogant pride on his face, must've been somehow responsible for the renovation. Legolas could tell that Gimli was uneasy with all the attention, though he did a great job of hiding it beneath the confident smile that Legolas himself had coached before his first gallery opening. They were talking to reporters and patrons alike.

Gimli wore a black suit, his hair pulled tightly back into a long braid. He'd trimmed his beard, but not enough to keep it from being a touch wild for present company. Despite these changes, he looked comfortable. The suit wasn't one that Legolas would have chosen, and yet it looked right on him. Even the ever-present Vans on his feet looked somehow normal. Comfort over conformity. Legolas found himself smiling. Gimli looked good.

“There's been a push in the local art community to use recycled materials,” Gimli answered smoothly, focusing on the woman who'd asked the question. “Not only is it better than abandoning them to landfills, but art – particularly high-profile art – can really demonstrate to people how waste can be re-purposed. Plus, by using plastic bottles instead of say, paper, all the paper I didn't spend on this can be used for things more necessary than visual art.” His eyes went unfocused for a moment. “And I had a friend who's always been passionate about the environment,” he said in a softer tone. “In a way, I made these for him.”

Legolas felt a pain in his chest. Gimli had never said, never once hinted that he had anything at all to do with his inspiration for this project. He thought back, trying to remember, and realized with a start that he hadn't exactly been paying a lot of attention. Maybe Gimli had told him; maybe he'd been too caught up in his own work to notice.

“Then all this trash was taken from bins around the city?” This question came from a woman with a press badge and an audio recorder.

Gimli smiled sheepishly; Legolas's heart lurched. “Well,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking on his feet like a little boy. “Most of it came from dumpster diving, but I'll be honest with you – my friends and I went through a lot of soda during the first months I worked on this.”

The memory of their messy apartment made Legolas surprisingly wistful. He thought of that night and the guys playing Mario Kart surrounded by empty bottles and the bags of trash that Éomer had brought. It had never felt like a good memory before, but right then, watching Gimli getting so much praise and attention – his art hung so prominently and so permanently above them – everything looked different.

The lights suddenly dimmed and brightened: it was the signal that the show was about to begin. The crowd instantly dissipated, the man at Gimli's elbow leaning close to tell him something before heading into the theater. Gimli nodded at him, the smile on his face faltering just a bit.

Legolas didn't go. The lobby slowly emptied, but he couldn't find a way to make his feet move. And when Gimli looked up and saw him, he was glad he hadn't.

Gimli smiled.

It was a real, honest smile, and Legolas could see the relief in his eyes – maybe it was just that the awkward explanation of his work was finished, but maybe it was more than that. Maybe he was glad to see Legolas.

Tauriel appeared at his side, her hand sliding protectively around his arm. “Legolas?” she asked, glancing at Gimli and then back to him. “I'll go find our seats.” She kissed his cheek – moral support – and vanished into the theater.

Gimli was the first to speak. “You came,” said, his voice soft.

Legolas nodded. “It's–” he motioned up toward the vast installation. “It's incredible, Gim. You've really outdone yourself.”

He looked pleased with the praise, then chagrined. “It wrecked my whole world,” he said, his tone confessional. He looked up at his own art, his expression growing solemn. “It looks like it's been a success, that I've finally put myself on the map as an artist in this city, but I don't think it was worth it.”

“Worth what?” Legolas asked. His heart was hammering. From the open doors to the theater, he could hear the swell of applause and then the indistinct murmur of a voice speaking. It must be the professor, he realized, starting his introduction.

Gimli leveled a steady look at him, his face serious. “Everything I gave up,” he said simply.

Legolas felt his insides lurch. “This has been your dream,” he insisted. “It's who you are.” He remembered Gimli as a high-school junior, his head bent over a sketchbook, his pencil furiously drawing the faces of the guys who were in detention with them. Any time he had a moment that was solely his own, that was what he'd do – pull out a sketchbook and scribble away. “Art has been your passion for as long as I've known you.”

Swallowing hard, Gimli looked up at the chandeliers once more. When his gaze returned to Legolas he looked sad. He blinked a glassy sheen from his eyes. “Was it?” he rasped.

There were more than five feet of empty space between them. Legolas wanted – what? There was a part of him that screamed caution – don't touch, don't talk, don't feel – but the rest of him ached to close the distance between them, to do whatever it took to steal the sadness from Gimli's eyes. For a long moment he didn't trust himself to speak; he pressed his lips together and looked at Gimli and wondered how they'd gone so wrong. Was there a way back? Did he even want it?

Yes.

A swell of orchestral music poured from the theater, and the ushers moved to close the doors. The overture was starting. He imagined Tauriel next to his empty seat, too worried about him to enjoy herself. “I should go,” he said at last, still unwilling to pull his eyes from Gimli's. He motioned impotently toward the staircase to the balcony. “Tauriel.”

Gimli nodded. Mute.

“It was good–” Legolas faltered, his breath lurching. “It was good to see you, Gimli.”

The ghost of a smile curled Gimli's lips. “Yeah,” he said, little more than a whisper. “It's always good to see you.”

Legolas turned and took the stairs two at a time. He didn't look back. He didn't want to see Gimli standing small and alone in the lobby. He didn't know what he would do if he did.

The curtain was still down, so the usher led him quickly to his seat. It was on the aisle, in the very first row of the Loge. His father, though one of the most powerful men in Minas Tirith, didn't quite have the clout to get them into box seats here in Minas Ithil, but it looked like he'd managed to get them an enviable vantage point nonetheless. He sank into the plush, new upholstery and smiled apologetically at Tauriel. “Sorry,” he whispered.

She looked at him, her expression worried. “You okay?” she mouthed.

He didn't know how to answer. She would know if he lied, and he wasn't sure which answer was the truth, anyway. He shrugged.

Apparently she understood. She patted his knee affectionately. He thought she might whisper some consolation, but at that moment the music swelled. The heavy indigo curtain started to rise. A disembodied voice – a rich baritone or bass, Legolas didn't know the difference – began slowly to chant, and Tauriel's attention was immediately fixed on the stage. Legolas watched a tiny sigh of pleasure escape her lips and knew he'd lost her for the next few hours.

He tried to watch the opera. He looked at the stage and let the music wash over him, but it took less than ten minutes for him to realize that it was no good. All he could think about was Gimli. The last time he'd seen him, he'd been so out of control that he'd taken him to a hotel.

But it wasn't the same as last time, he told himself. That had been about a physical need. About sex. He'd lied to himself, pretended that he'd been striving for closure, but since then he'd come to terms with just how little closure it'd actually given him. This time it wasn't his body telling him to get back downstairs, it was something else. Something he should trust even less.

Gimli was still in love with him.

Just thinking the words sent a rush of tenderness through him. For the first time since months before they'd broken up, Legolas thought he understood what Gimli was thinking, what he was feeling. When they'd talked in the lobby, Legolas hadn't felt like he was talking to the man who had broken his heart; he'd been talking to Gimli, the guy who made him feel eager and breathless and so head-over-heels in love that he couldn't think straight. And that night he'd finally felt it, the truth to the words Gimli had said in that hotel room those months ago.

But maybe it was just wishful thinking. Gimli had dumped him. Wasn't it more likely that this revelation was really just the desperate fantasy of his lonely mind? He gazed at the stage, awash with color and light and incredible music, and tried to talk himself out of believing what he knew he saw in Gimli's face that night.

He couldn't manage it.

Legolas stood. Tauriel looked up sharply, alarmed. “I'm sorry,” he whispered to her.

Her brow furrowed with concern, but a half a second later she blinked it away. “Go on, then.” She smiled shakily.

He went.

^^

Gimli wanted a cigarette. It had only been – what? – two days since his last one. He didn't know exactly what had made him quit, but he liked that, for the first time since middle school nothing but his shoes carried the smell of cigarette smoke. And he hoped that no one in a swanky place like this noticed the smell of his shoes.

He stood alone in the lobby, pretending to look over the press release that Mr. Erestor – the theater guy in charge of the overseeing the renovation – had left him. He was supposed to check it for accuracy, and he had nothing else to do while he waited for the continuation of the mandatory Q & A session that would resume during the show's intermission. But his mind wasn't on his work. He fidgeted, enjoying the strains of music muted by the heavy doors. This theater was a work of art in of itself, with its shiny, open foyer. The staircase sweeping up to the second floor was grander than anything he'd seen in his life.

And all he could think of now when he stared at it was how comfortable Legolas had looked, skipping lightly up those stairs. He hadn't looked back.

This was Legolas's world. He was champagne and violins, while Gimli was cigarettes and soda bottles. People like Legolas and Tauriel fit in within this culture of art appreciation, while Gimli – someone who helped to create the atmosphere – was somehow a guest in a posh world. He found himself longing for the old tattoo shop, and wondered how famous he'd have to get to be able to get away with being eccentric enough to avoid the unveiling of his own art.

There was an empty seat waiting for him in the theater, so he could have gone in to watch the show, but he wasn't interested. He'd heard once that there were two kinds of people in the world – those who instantly loved opera, and those who grew to love it. Everyone who wanted to feel cultured assumed they were the former, and Gimli didn't want to discover the he wasn't. He would rather leave and go back to his studio, maybe run over to Aragorn's. But no, he had to stick around in case there were more reporters asking about these damned chandeliers.

A tiny part of him relished the restriction, though. Legolas was in there. Maybe he would find Gimli at intermission. Maybe they would talk again.

He pulled out his phone and turned it over in his hands, wanting to text Legolas. _It was so good to see you_ , he would write. _We should have lunch sometime._ But there wasn't much point – Legs was too well bred to have his phone turned on during a production.

Longing for him and hardly believing that he'd been there, talking and smiling just a few minutes before, Gimli glanced again at the staircase. A current of shock rippled through his entire body. He blinked, but the fantasy persisted. It was really Legolas coming down the stairs, as quickly as was acceptable in formal attire. Now that the room was empty, his black tuxedo stood out in stark contrast against the blond wood and brushed nickel railings.

“You're still here,” he said breathlessly, when he was halfway across the foyer. “I tried to watch the show, but I couldn't think of anything but you.”

Gimli sighed in shaking relief, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket. “I wanted to text you,” he said weakly. “But I figured your phone was off.”

“Let's get out of here.”

It was suggested like it was the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly, to Gimli it was. There was nowhere he'd rather be than wherever Legolas was. “I'm supposed to be here for intermission,” he said, disappointed.

“So we have two hours,” Legolas said, smiling; Gimli's heart lurched. “Let's go.”

Gimli acquiesced. “Where are we going?”

Legolas didn't answer, but he took Gimli's hand to lead him through the doors. Their fingers laced through each other's as naturally as they had six years earlier, sitting side-by-side in the school library. These were the same hands that had doodled on each other with Sharpies, soothed feverish foreheads, prepared drinks for one another. Gimli wondered how he'd thought even for a moment that they would be better off apart.

“There's a neat little cupcake shop down the street,” Legolas said. “It's called Icing Guard.” Gimli grinned; Legolas had always had a weakness for sweets.

They continued to walk, hand-in-hand, until they made it to the quaint store. Legolas ordered two massive cupcakes – remembering that strawberry was Gimli's favorite – and they ate in relative quiet, walking back up the street toward the theater.

“These _are_ good. You should take Merry and Pippin someday – they'd love it,” Gimli said, preferring small talk to asking the plethora of questions that came to his mind. _Do you still care? Can we start over? What does this mean?_

But Legolas didn't respond to his casual conversation. His face was pensive as he licked the chocolate icing from his cake. “I never said,” Legolas began haltingly after a long pause. “That night – after the baby was born. You... you said you still loved me, and I never told you that it was mutual.”

“It was?” Gimli asked, his voice suddenly hoarse. He blamed the cake for the lump that seemed suddenly to have formed in his esophagus, making his chest tight and painful.

“It is.” Legolas wasn't looking at him, letting his eyes fall anywhere, it seemed, but on Gimli's face. “You said you ended things because you didn't like who we were. That pissed me off, but the more I think about it, the more I think you were right to do it.”

Gimli's stomach seemed to drop out from under him. Legolas still loved him, but didn't want to be together? The high of having walked three blocks hand-in-hand fizzled, and suddenly the night was too warm, his cupcake nauseatingly sweet.

“I wasn't happy,” Legolas continued softly. “And it took you breaking up with me to realize how much was wrong.”

Gimli hesitated before asking the obvious question, steeling himself for the answer. “Are you happy now?” Maybe if Legolas had found happiness, something in this whole fucking scenario would be worth it.

“Sometimes,” Legolas said, throwing his empty baking cup into a nearby trash can and shoving his hands into his pockets. “But I miss you every day. I thought it would get better after a while, but how can it? There's always something happening at work that would make you laugh, or I hear a song that you would love.”

“I know what you mean,” Gimli said. But he didn't – not really. He'd never once pretended he was going to get over Legolas, and he didn't know what this revelation meant. But he'd follow along, listen to anything Legolas wanted to tell him, because even if Legolas had no intention of ever seeing him again, Gimli was greedy to hold on to whatever time they had right then.

“Let's walk,” Legolas said, not waiting for Gimli to agree before starting up the sidewalk. “I want to show you something.”

No more words were exchanged as they walked through the brightly-lit city. After two blocks, Legolas led him to the steps down to a subway station. “It's only three stops away,” he said to Gimli's worried expression. He paid for his and Gimli's access, and before Gimli knew it they were heading on a west-bound train.

When they reached their stop, he trailed Legolas up the broad steps toward the street, then followed blindly as they walked to their destination. It wasn't the best area of town, he instantly recognized, and he tried without success to figure out exactly which neighborhood they'd come to. At first he was nervous, walking in a strange place after dark, but there were people on the stoops of their apartment buildings, enjoying the warm spring evening.

“It's just over here,” Legolas said, jaywalking in order to take Gimli directly to the gate into a small lot. It was a narrow corridor between buildings, barely twenty-five feet across, but the ground was covered with raised garden beds. The area smelled like fresh soil and compost. “While you were making those gorgeous chandeliers, this is what I was doing.”

The beds were sturdy and efficient, sometimes terraced to make the best use of what little space was available. Some of them had trellises – maybe they were for peas or other climbing plants; Gimli wasn't sure. Most of the beds already had plants sprouting, though it was too early for anything to be recognizable to Gimli. He touched a leaf, surprised to note that it was vaguely fuzzy. When he pulled his fingers away, they smelled almost like mint, but not. “You did this?” he asked. It was too dark to see everything, but a spot like that was usually nothing but rubble and trash.

Gimli had been proud to take trash and make it into something beautiful, but Legolas had gone one step further. He'd turned it into something _alive_. “It's incredible,” he said, breathless. He peered upward toward the narrow patch of sky. “But how does this place get enough sunlight?”

Legolas grinned, apparently happy to be asked. “Mirrors,” he said. He pointed up, and Gimli saw that there were mirrors mounted on either building, apparently to direct the sunlight down into the garden. “It wasn't my idea, but I figured out how to make it work.”

Gimli shook his head, digging a toe into the soft gravel path. “And this is all food? For the people who live near here? For the kids?”

Legolas nodded. “I have two others like it in town,” he continued, pride in his voice. “And we're starting an initiative for rooftop gardens in some other areas.”

Gimli studied him in the low light of the streetlamp. His smile was serene, his eyes bright as he continued to talk about the park planning and what it would bring to each neighborhood. He'd found something to be passionate about, Gimli realized. And he'd found it while Gimli was wrapped up in his own creative process; he'd been so focused on his installation that he hadn't noticed that Legolas was falling in love.

“It's frustrating, some days,” Legolas continued. “I finally understand now how you can have a hundred ideas at once, and have to narrow them down to something manageable. But Gimli, I've never done something that felt so worthwhile.”

Gimli gazed at him through the darkness, overwhelmed by his emotions. By Legolas's emotions. “You found it then,” he said hoarsely. “You found something to consume you.” He was happy for him in a way that he hadn't expected: deep and satisfying and somehow in no way contingent on the status of their relationship.

Legolas leaned closer to him, his eyes bright but his face utterly solemn. He put a hand to Gimli's face, cupping his jaw. “I've always been consumed by you,” he said softly, his fingers gently scratching that sweet spot in Gimli's beard.

And when Legolas kissed him, Gimli was reaching for it, leaning in and letting his eyelids drop closed. It was sweet like a first kiss, and Gimli was engulfed by tenderness for this man. He didn't know how Legolas could be so amazing, so capable of forgiveness, when all Gimli had done over the past year was find new ways to fuck up.

“I'm sorry,” Gimli said as they parted. His voice was ragged. He looked at the ground.

“For what?” Legolas's fingers combed through Gimli's hair, tucking back the rebellious strands that would not stay put.

“Éomer.” He felt Legolas stiffen in his arms and forced himself to continue. “I kissed Éomer.”

Gimli couldn't look up at Legolas, but heard the short hiss of his breath. “When?” he asked, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Shame burned behind Gimli's eyes. “A couple of weeks after,” he confessed. “I was so lonely, and–” But there wasn't anything to say beyond the _and_. Anything more would just be excuses.

“Did you sleep with him?” The question sounded choked, distant despite the fact that Legolas was only inches away. “Did you break up with me because you wanted–”

“No!” The denial was more vehement than Gimli had intended. He pulled away enough to look Legolas in the eye. “No,” he repeated, quietly fervent. “Legolas, there's only been you, ever. And if these months showed me anything, it's that for me, there only ever _will be_ you.”

For a long time Legolas didn't answer. He looked away, toward a mural on one of the buildings, a picture of children happily eating vegetables. Gimli felt his hope draining away from him, and he thought about getting up and walking back to the theater alone. That sort of retreat would make him look like a kicked puppy, his tail tucked between his legs, but the image was appropriate – he felt like a kicked puppy, except that he had no one but himself to blame for the pain.

But wasn't that what Aragorn had warned him against? What was the point in telling Legolas about that night with Éomer unless that honesty was about moving closer together? Gimli looked at Legolas's stony profile; his distant expression offered him no hope, but maybe he could do this without hope. Maybe he had to put himself out there, tell Legolas what he wanted, and then face the consequence. Could it be any worse than it already was?

No. It couldn't.

“Legs, you know I love you,” he began softly. At first he wasn't sure Legolas heard, but then a muscle moved in his jaw. A swallow. “I want to be with you. I want to be with you every day of my fucked up life, because it turns out that you're the only thing that makes sense.”

Legolas blinked slowly. He turned to meet Gimli's gaze, his expression softening. Gimli found hope there after all. “Will you take me back?” he asked.

He was pulled closer, Legolas tightening his arms around his back. “I thought I already had,” Legolas said, his voice breaking.

Gimli stared, unbelieving, struggling to quell the surge of joy that threatened to engulf him. “Even–despite–” He couldn't finish the question, his throat was so raw. But Legolas answered anyway, his lips curving into a grin as he nodded.

Overwhelmed, Gimli ducked his head, burrowing against the front of Legolas's tuxedo shirt, those hard, tiny buttons pressing into his face. He dug his fingers into the back of Legolas's jacket and held on.

“Not the way we were,” Legolas cautioned, one hand stroking the long braid of Gimli's hair. “We can't do that again.”

“No,” Gimli agreed. “We'll talk. We'll take it slow.” As if to prove his words, he pulled out of Legolas's embrace, leaning back on the wide edge of the planter box.

“Gim,” Legolas began with a light laugh, “when have we ever taken things slowly?”

The reminder brought a grin to Gimli's face. They hadn't exactly been known for their restraint, in the beginning. But they had to be serious now. “Well I mean... maybe we shouldn't move back in together,” he explained. “Not until–”

“We have our own place,” they finished in unison.

Legolas reached over and took both of Gimli's hands in his own. “I'm planning to move out of my father's apartment,” he said. “As soon as I found the right place. But it can wait. When you're ready, we can find a place together.”

“Does your dad know about this?” Gimli got the impression that Mr. Thranduilion liked having Legolas where he could keep tabs on him.

Legolas nodded. “I told him last week, the night he insisted that I come to tonight's show instead of him.”

“Shit!” Gimli jumped to his feet. He had no clue how much time had passed. “I completely forgot about the theater. I've got to get back for the intermission!”

Legolas yanked out his phone to check the time. “We need to hurry, but we can get there in time,” he said, already starting to to walk toward the street. Gimli hurried to follow, glad for the umpteenth time that that he'd worn his Vans instead of dress shoes. 

They were barely to the street when the phone in Legolas's hand buzzed. He checked it, barely slowing his stride. “A text from Tau,” he said, puzzled, and Gimli imagined her opening her purse and texting from inside it to hide the glow from the screen.

“What'd she say?” Gimli asked as Legolas's fingers flew over the virtual keyboard in response.

“She wants to know where I am,” Legolas told him. He looked up to check for traffic, then grabbed Gimli's hand to jaywalk across a busy street. “I told her I was with you.”

They were darting down the steps to the subway when the phone buzzed again. Gimli felt his stomach roil. He had been so focused on getting Legolas back that he hadn't considered any possible fallout from their friends.

But Legs grinned.

“What'd she say?” Gimli asked again.

“Thumbs up, thumbs up, winky face, unicorn,” Legolas read with a laugh, turning the phone so Gimli could see the string of emojis. “I'm not sure what I'm supposed to take from the unicorn, though.”

Gimli sighed, even more relieved than he'd expected to be. “Thank gods,” he said. “I was worried she'd hate me.”

Legolas looked comically uncomfortable. “Arwen,” he said as their train thundered into the station. Gimli looked at him, perplexed. “I think Arwen's the one you've gotta worry about.”

Gimli could only blink at him, baffled.


	15. Epilogue

SUMMER: Mid-July

The air conditioning in St. Aulë’s was sweet relief after spending nine innings in the blazing sun. Legolas was pretty sure he was burned to a crisp. But it had been worth it: not only had it been Boromir’s first game as a major league starting pitcher for the Pelargrir Pirates, but he'd also pitched what was nearly a shut-out game. The whole group had come to Minas Ithil for this event, and now they were happily moving tables together in the middle of the bar, much to Butterbur’s chagrin.

“Add that four-top,” Pippin instructed, and Diamond shoved it over with her hip. “Now we’ve got enough room for everyone.” They all took seats haphazardly around the table, talking about the game and pelting Boromir with questions about the other players.

“Just think,” Merry said, beaming, “Boromir is currently the best pitcher in the league, with an ERA of .222. That’s unheard of!”

This observation triggered a debate with Aragorn about the significance of statistics after just one game, and Gimli leaned into Legolas’s shoulder. “Do you think it’s possible that we’ve lost Merry to the world of sports, now that he knows he can track stats?” he whispered. “Just wait until he learns about fantasy baseball!”

Legolas snickered. “It'll take him a bit to get over the lack of gnomes and tieflings, but I bet he’ll be at our place next spring, wanting to start a draft.” His heart lurched happily at the notion of their own home. Almost three months had passed since they'd gotten back together, and they'd very quickly found their way back to a positive place. By the end of May they'd already begun looking for apartments together.

“Sam,” Rose chastised from Merry’s other side. “Stop checking your phone. Elanor’s with my parents – it’s not like they don’t know how to take care of a baby.” She was freckled and pink from the sun, and it was clear that motherhood was agreeing with her. Legolas thought she was even prettier now than she had been in high school.

“I was checking the time,” Sam said, an obvious lie made more obvious by the guilty look on his face.

Frodo and Rose laughed, shaking their heads. Frodo was spending the summer with the Gamgees. It had been generally agreed upon that he'd been working too hard, and Rose and Sam insisted he trade Valinor and his graduate studies for a solid three months of carefree family life with them. It seemed to be doing the trick – his eyes were brighter than Legolas had ever seen them, and the three of them were as thick as thieves, always teasing and referencing a multitude of inside jokes, sometimes without even speaking.

He remembered Frodo's panic the year before, afraid he was losing his best friend to marriage and parenthood. It seemed that he'd had nothing to worry about – it looked like little Elanor brought them closer than ever.

A waitress came around to get their drink orders, tossing out coasters like playing cards. She was a cute brunette with eyes only for Aragorn, and Legolas remembered that she'd started working the same week he'd quit. He couldn't remember her name, though. "Let's have beers all around," Legolas told her, waving his index finger in a circle to indicate the whole group.

"I'm going to have to see some IDs," she said, her tone apologetic. Everyone pulled out their wallets and she studied each one carefully.

"Umm, none for me," Stella said shyly when her turn came. “Can I have a Coke?” she asked the server.

“Us too,” Boromir added, his gesture encompassing Faramir and himself. “I don't drink during the season."

"And I'm feeling more like soda tonight, too," Pippin said. Faramir smiled appreciatively. He and Pip had always been the young ones in the group, and it was clear to Legolas that he was glad that Pippin had abstained in solidarity because Faramir was too young.

“Sure. Four Cokes. We've got Bullroarer's Brew on tap – that's good for the rest of you, right?” She shot Aragorn one last flirtatious grin and disappeared behind the bar.

“And who's that?” Arwen asked him, trying to look firm even as a smile tugged at her lips.

Legolas didn't hear his answer because Gimli leaned over him to talk to Stella. "You don't drink?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I just turned eighteen last month," she explained. “Day after graduation, in fact.” Merry slid his arm around her, pulling her into his argument about the validity of statistics in general, even outside the world of sports.

Legolas and Gimli exchanged a look, eyebrows raised. "All this time, she was still in high school?" Gimli asked, his voice low.

A playful laugh bubbled out of Legolas. “Leave it to Merry,” he said. He and Gimli had spent years wondering which sex – if any – interested Merry; the fact that he turned out to be equally ambivalent about age should have come as no surprise at all.

The drinks came quickly and Legolas leaned back in his chair, sipping from his frothy mug. They hadn't all gotten together like that since Boromir's father's memorial, and it was good to see everyone having a good time. Even more, it was good to have Gimli by his side again. He guessed that for everyone else it was as though things had gone back to normal, but for them, for him and for Gimli, this was a new kind of normal.

"Have you gotten any closer to setting a date?" Arwen asked Éowyn. Despite having never really hung out before, they'd somehow become besties that day, even looking the part – Éowyn's Pirates cap matched Arwen's baseball tee.

Éowyn shook her head, a comical expression of horror on her face. "We're not even thinking about that yet," she said.

"Not until after graduation," Faramir chimed in.

"And in the meantime," Boromir said to Éowyn, coming up behind the pair and hooking Faramir's head in the crook of his elbow, "if this guy gives you any more shit, you let me know and I'll rough him up accordingly. Undo all that fancy therapy he's gone through."

"I think he's endured enough for one lifetime," Frodo said with a laugh.

“I second that!” Faramir insisted, batting his brother away.

“It's good to see that,” Gimli murmured. Boromir was laughing, one hand on Éowyn's shoulder as Faramir raised his fists in a mock threat toward him. They looked like a family.

“It's about time,” Legolas agreed.

Merry and Pippin had been similarly reunited, spending the entire baseball game side-by-side, a constant stream of conversation between them. At that moment Pip was blowing a wad of paper from his straw, trying to land it in Merry's beer. Merry covered his glass with one hand, trying to protect it while keeping up his debate with Aragorn. “It looks like all the old friendships are back on track,” Legolas observed, squeezing Gimli's knee beneath the table.

“Mostly.” Gimli's observation sounded a touch wistful, and an instant later, Legolas realized why.

Another couple had appeared next to their table – Éomer, along with a woman who looked to be a little older than all of them. They were in work clothes, and her pencil skirt and kitten heels made the girls at the table look like, well, _girls_.

“This is Lothíriel,” Éomer said, putting an arm around her waist. He pointed at everyone in turn, naming them for her.

“We don't expect you'll get them all,” Éowyn said, grinning. “Not right away.”

Éomer smiled at his sister, his cheek dimpling. “Don't underestimate her,” he said, and he gazed happily at the woman by his side. “This lady has a mind like a steel trap.” Chairs were scooted and space was made and the server brought out beer for Éomer and a whiskey sour for Lothíriel.

“Did you know he was seeing anyone?” Legolas asked Gimli, leaning close so they wouldn't be overheard.

Gimli nodded. “He told me he was thinking of bringing her around to meet everyone.” He took a sip of his beer as he studied the woman on the far end of the table. “She's not what I expected. Though come to think of it, he did say that they had a rocky start, and she doesn't look like someone who'd take a lot of crap.”

Before Legolas could ask exactly what Gimli had been expecting, Éomer looked up and caught his eye. His expression changed and his grin fell away, only to be replaced by a different kind of smile. Éomer nodded a greeting, which Legolas silently returned.

Then Éomer's gaze turned to Gimli and his smile turned playful. “Glóinsson,” he called. “We still on for Friday night?”

Gimli's wistfulness fell away. He grinned. “I will kick the living shit out of you,” he taunted. Lately they'd been playing games online at least twice a week.

It had been a slow recovery for Gimli's and Éomer's friendship – at first they'd kept in touch only through online games, slowly building back toward actual hanging out. Gimli had a room in an old-style boarding house these days, and as far as Legolas was aware, Éomer had never been there. They met for drinks or lunch sometimes, and it seemed to Legolas that they were awkwardly stumbling back to normal. It wasn't always easy.

But then, they'd been a little too easy before, or at least that's what Legolas thought.

“Hey Gimli!” Éowyn leaned across the the table. “Do you have any studio time this week? I've finally decided which of your designs I want on my shoulder.” She slid her cell phone over, and Legolas peered over Gimli's shoulder at the intricate weave of lines and knots that somehow came out looking like a horse's head, its mane loose in the wind.

Lothíriel looked up, interested. “You're the one who does tattoos?” she asked. “Éomer said you might find time to do one for me.” She turned to Diamond, who sat to her right. “I'm thinking of a cloud with a kind of a stylized lightning bolt-rainbow,” she told her. “Right here.” And right there in the bar, she shimmied up the hem of her skirt and patted an expanse of smooth skin on her thigh near the hip.

Di grinned. “I've got two, but none of Gim's yet. He's in pretty high demand.” She unbuttoned her shirt and yanked down the top of her bra to show Lothíriel a tattoo on the top of her breast. “This is the one I can show in public,” she said with a wicked grin.

Pippin leaned back in his chair, his face alight with pleasure. “Damn, the view is fantastic from where I'm sitting,” he gloated, admiring both women. “Gimli, I think that you going back to tattoo work might've just made my whole week.”

“My pleasure,” Gimli said and he took a swig of his beer. He'd been working in his cousin Dwalin's studio for the past month – not as a regular artist, but by appointment only. That gave him an income as well as plenty of time to work on the rest of his art projects. “But I'm afraid that I won't be able to take any new work on for a few weeks,” he told them. “Legs and I closed on the house. We move in next week.”

There was a burst of congratulations and well wishes, and Legolas watched, amused, as Rose and Diamond somehow planned an entire housewarming party in less than three minutes. Aragorn, Sam, and Frodo were recruited to help with the move – Boromir got off on the weight of his game schedule while Merry and Pippin floundered with a multitude of weak excuses. Legolas enjoyed watching them squirm, knowing full well that he was hiring professionals and that his friends wouldn't have to do a thing.

The house wasn't the brownstone he'd fallen half in love with in Fangorn. That one had been too much to Legolas's taste without much for Gimli's, it turned out. Together they'd found a place in a different part of Fangorn where it butted up against Aglarond, another of Minas Ithil's many boroughs. It was also an end unit of a set of old row houses, but this one had an apartment on the third floor – complete with skylights and its own private entrance. It had taken Gimli about thirty seconds to mentally arrange his new studio up there.

And when Gimli added his commission money to what Legolas had saved up, they didn't even have to go to his father to get cash for the down payment. It felt good to do something that big without his help, and Legolas thought it meant something to note that he wouldn't have been able to manage it without Gimli.

It felt good to be back together, period. This time they understood that it wouldn't be perfect, that they would need to speak up when something bothered them. Legolas had gotten back into the habit of visiting Gimli's studio, and now Gimli knew Legolas's garden projects almost as well as he did. He'd even come to a few after-work functions. They were back on track, better than ever.

Legolas squeezed Gimli's knee, enjoying his enthusiasm as he described his new studio to Boromir. The touch brought an idle smile to Gimli's face, and Legolas felt a silly rush of affection.

Suddenly Aragorn stood, and something about his demeanor made all the other conversations stop. "Legolas and Gimli aren't the only ones with news," he said, almost sheepishly. "I proposed to Arwen last night and she said yes."

Another round of surprised cries filled the room and Arwen flashed her delicate engagement ring for the others to examine. Legolas, meanwhile, congratulated Aragorn while Boromir jumped up to thump him solidly on the back.

"We're hoping to marry sometime next year," Arwen said.

"And what does your father think of this?" Éowyn asked with a laugh. It was common knowledge that Aragorn hadn't always had the best relationship with the vice-principal of their high school, particularly once he started dating Mr. Elrond's daughter.

"We'll find out tomorrow night," Aragorn replied. "But I think he'll be okay with it. I've grown on him." He looked confident. Legolas was impressed.

"Well, this deserves a toast," Boromir said, lifting his mug. "To new beginnings!"

"And to life changes," Arwen added, smiling at Aragorn as they raised their glasses.

"To perseverance," Éowyn said, her expression soft as she gazed at her own fiance.

He grinned and added, "And also patience."

"To reconciliation!" Pippin shouted, raising his glass and clinking it solidly against Merry's nearly-empty beer mug.

"And to the plotting that led them there," Diamond said with a laugh, winking at Rosie.

Lothíriel said nothing, though her glass was raised with the rest. Éomer, who was leaning close to her, chimed in instead. "To second chances." He grinned at his girlfriend, but then sent his smile down to their end of the table, where Gimli returned it.

"To family," Rose said, earning a playful "hear, hear!" from Éomer and Éowyn.

"Especially the family you choose," Sam amended, throwing an arm around Frodo's shoulders.

"To keeping in touch," Frodo said softly, "no matter how far from home we wander."

"To winning," Merry said, nodding toward Boromir, but then he winked at Stella, "even when the deck is stacked."

"And when the dice are rolling low," Stella added, her cheeks rosy as she leaned close against Merry's side.

"To love," Legolas said, lacing his fingers through Gimli's.

Gimli paused dramatically, his eyes shining as he took in every face at the table. "To us," he said firmly.

"To us!" Aragorn repeated, still on his feet and looking besotted – not just with Arwen, for a change, but with all of them.

The others chorused the final toast and drank. Legolas met Gimli's eyes and squeezed his hand. It had seemed like every single toast could apply to them, making Legolas think of the rocky year they had shared. He was starting to see that it had been necessary, if only to remind them how very good they could be for each other if they tried.

“Love you,” Gimli said, his voice hushed. His face was flushed with too much sun and his eyes were shining bright in the dim glow of the overhead lamp. He looked the way Legolas felt – like he was overflowing with happiness. “For keeps.”

Legolas raised his mug and touched it to Gimli's. “For keeps.”


End file.
